The Last Chronicle of Barset.............................................................................................................................1

Anthony Trollope .....................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I. HOW DID HE GET IT? ....................................................................................................2

CHAPTER II. BY HEAVENS, HE HAD BETTER NOT! .....................................................................9

CHAPTER III. THE ARCHDEACON'S THREAT ..............................................................................14

CHAPTER IV. THE CLERGYMAN'S HOUSE AT HOGGLESTOCK ..............................................18

CHAPTER V. WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT OF IT ....................................................................23

CHAPTER VI. GRACE CRAWLEY ....................................................................................................26

CHAPTER VII. MISS PRETTYMAN'S PRIVATE ROOM................................................................33

CHAPTER VIII. MR CRAWLEY IS TAKEN TO SILVERBRIDGE.................................................39

CHAPTER IX. GRACE CRAWLEY GOES TO ALLINGTON ..........................................................48

CHAPTER X. DINNER AT FRAMLEY COURT...............................................................................54

CHAPTER XI. THE BISHOP SENDS HIS INHIBITION ...................................................................58

CHAPTER XII. MR CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY .............................................................63

CHAPTER XIII. THE BISHOP'S ANGEL ...........................................................................................69

CHAPTER XIV. MAJOR GRANTLY CONSULTS A FRIEND .........................................................75

CHAPTER XV. UP IN LONDON........................................................................................................79

CHAPTER XVI. DOWN AT ALLINGTON........................................................................................86

CHAPTER XVII. MR CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER .........................................96

CHAPTER XVIII. THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED..............................................102

CHAPTER XIX. WHERE DID IT COME FROM?...........................................................................109

CHAPTER XX. WHAT MR WALKER THOUGHT ABOUT IT.....................................................112

CHAPTER XXI. MR ROBARTS ON HIS EMBASSY.....................................................................117

CHAPTER XXII. MAJOR GRANTLY AT HOME...........................................................................123

CHAPTER XXIII. MISS LILY DALE'S RESOLUTION..................................................................129

CHAPTER XXIV. MRS DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNERPARTY ...........................................137

CHAPTER XXV. MISS MADELINE DEMOLINES........................................................................147

CHAPTER XXVI. THE PICTURE .....................................................................................................154

CHAPTER XXVII. A HERO AT HOME...........................................................................................160

CHAPTER XXVIII. SHOWING HOW MAJOR GRANTLY TOOK A WALK ...............................165

CHAPTER XXIX. MISS LILY DALE'S LOGIC...............................................................................169

CHAPTER XXX. SHOWING WHAT MAJOR GRANTLY DID AFTER HIS WALK ...................174

CHAPTER XXXII. MR TOOGOOD ..................................................................................................183

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE PLUMSTEAD FOXES.............................................................................194

CHAPTER XXXIV. MRS PROUDIE SENDS FOR HER LAWYER...............................................200

CHAPTER XXXV. LILY DALE WRITES TWO WORDS IN HER BOOK ....................................205

CHAPTER XXXVI. GRACE CRAWLEY RETURNS HOME.........................................................216

CHAPTER XXXVII. HOOK COURT ................................................................................................219

CHAPTER XXXVIII. JAEL...............................................................................................................225

CHAPTER XXXIX. A NEW FLIRTATION ......................................................................................232

CHAPTER XL. MR TOOGOOD'S IDEAS ABOUT SOCIETY ........................................................238

CHAPTER XLI. GRACE CRAWLEY AT HOME............................................................................244

CHAPTER XLII. MR TOOGOOD TRAVELS PROFESSIONALLY ...............................................251

CHAPTER XLIII. MR CROSBIE GOES INTO THE CITY ..............................................................260

CHAPTER XLIV. 'I SUPPOSE I MUST LET YOU HAVE IT' .........................................................266

CHAPTER XLV. LILY DALE GOES TO LONDON ........................................................................270

CHAPTER XLVI. THE BAYSWATER ROMANCE........................................................................277

CHAPTER XLVII. DR TEMPEST AT THE PALACE.....................................................................285

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE SOFTNESS OF SIR RAFFLE BUFFLE ...................................................295

CHAPTER XLIX. NEAR THE CLOSE.............................................................................................300

CHAPTER L. LADY LUFTON'S PROPOSITION ............................................................................308

CHAPTER LI. MRS DOBBS BROUGHTON PILES HER FAGGOTS...........................................314

CHAPTER LII. WHY DON'T YOU HAVE AN 'IT' FOR YOURSELF? ..........................................323

CHAPTER LIII. ROTTEN ROW ........................................................................................................329

CHAPTER LIV. THE CLERICAL COMMISSION ...........................................................................335

CHAPTER LV. FRAMLEY PARSONAGE .......................................................................................341

CHAPTER LVI. THE ARCHDEACON GOES TO FRAMLEY.......................................................344

CHAPTER LVII. A DOUBLE PLEDGE ............................................................................................354

CHAPTER LVIII. THE CROSSGRAINEDNESS OF MEN...........................................................360

CHAPTER LIX. A LADY PRESENTS HER COMPLIMENTS TO MISS L.D...............................368

CHAPTER LX. THE END OF JAEL AND SISERA.........................................................................376

CHAPTER LXI. 'IT'S DOGGED AS DOES IT'.................................................................................384

CHAPTER LXII. MR CRAWLEY'S LETTER TO THE DEAN.......................................................391

CHAPTER LXIII. TWO VISITORS TO HOGGLESTOCK ..............................................................398

CHAPTER LXIV. TRAGEDY AT HOOK COURT..........................................................................406

CHAPTER LXV. MISS VAN SIEVER MAKES HER CHOICE......................................................411

CHAPTER LXVI. REQUIESCAT IN PACE.....................................................................................416

CHAPTER LXVII. IN MEMORIAM.................................................................................................422

CHAPTER LXVIII. THE OBSTINACY OF MR CRAWLEY..........................................................428

CHAPTER LXIX. MR CRAWLEY'S LAST APPEARANCE IN HIS OWN PULPIT .....................433

CHAPTER LXX. MRS ARABIN IS CAUGHT.................................................................................436

CHAPTER LXXI. MR TOOGOOD AT SILVERBRIDGE ................................................................442

CHAPTER LXXII. MR TOOGOOD AT 'THE DRAGON OF WANTLY'.......................................448

CHAPTER LXXIII. THERE IS COMFORT AT PLUMSTEAD .......................................................452

CHAPTER LXXIV. THE CRAWLEYS ARE INFORMED..............................................................457

CHAPTER LXXV. MADALINA'S HEART IS BLEEDING .............................................................461

CHAPTER LXXVI. I THINK HE IS LIGHT OF HEART .................................................................467

CHAPTER LXXVII. THE SHATTERED TREE...............................................................................472

CHAPTER LXXVIII. THE ARABINS RETURN TO BARCHESTER .............................................477

CHAPTER LXXIX. MR CRAWLEY SPEAKS OF HIS COAT.......................................................483

CHAPTER LXXX. MISS DEMOLINES DESIRES TO BE A FINGERPOST ...............................488

CHAPTER LXXXI. BARCHESTER CLOISTERS...........................................................................496

CHAPTER LXXXII. THE LAST SCENE AT HOGGLESTOCK.....................................................499

CHAPTER LXXXIII. MR CRAWLEY IS CONQUERED ................................................................506

CHAPTER LXXXIV. CONCLUSION...............................................................................................510

'I can never bring myself to believe it, John,' said Mary Walker the pretty daughter of Mr George Walker,

attorney of Silverbridge. Walker and Winthrop was the name of the firm, and they were respectable people,

who did all the solicitors' business that had to be done in that part of Barsetshire on behalf of the Crown, were

employed on the local business of the Duke of Omnium, who is great in those parts, and altogether held their

heads up high, as provincial lawyers often do. Theythe Walkerslived in a great brick house in the

middle of the town, gave dinners, to which the county gentlemen not unfrequently condescended to come,

and in a mild way led the fashion in Silverbridge. 'I can never bring myself to believe it, John,' said Miss

'You'll have to bring yourself to believe it,' said John, without taking his eyes from his book.

'I don't see that that has anything to do with it.' And as he now spoke, John did take his eyes of his book.

'Why should not a clergyman turn thief as well as anybody else? You girls always seem to forget that

'I deny it utterly,' said John Walker. 'I'll undertake to say that at this moment there are more clergymen in debt

in Barsetshire than there are either lawyers or doctors. This man has always been in debt. Since he has been

in the county I don't think he has ever been able to show his face in the High Street of Silverbridge.'

'Why, mother, this very cheque was given to a butcher who had threatened a few days before to post bills all

about the county, giving an account of the debt that was due to him, if the money was not paid at once.'

'More shame for Mr Fletcher,' said Mary. 'He has made a fortune as butcher in Silverbridge.'

'What has that to do with it? Of course a man likes to have his money. He had written three times to the

bishop, and he had sent a man over to Hogglestock to get his little bill settled six days running. You see he

'Mamma, do you think that Mr Crawley stole the cheque?' Mary, as she asked the question, came and stood

'Of course my mother thinks he did,' said John, going back to his book. 'It is impossible that she should think

'That is not fair, John,' said Mrs Walker; 'and I won't have you fabricate thoughts for me, or put the

expression of them into my mouth. The whole affair is very painful, and as your father is engaged in the

inquiry, I think that the less said about the matter in this house the better. I am sure that that would be your

'I do not see that at all,' said John. 'Mr Crawley is not more than any other man just because he's a clergyman.

I hate all that kind of claptrap. There are a lot of people here in Silverbridge who think the matter shouldn't

be followed up, just because the man is in a position which makes the crime more criminal in him than it

'My dear,' said Mrs Walker, 'I have just said that I would rather you would not talk about it. Papa will be in

'Only! yes; just only!' said John. 'She'd go on till dinner if anyone would stay to hear her.'

'You've said twice as much as I have, John.' But John had left the room before his sister's words could reach

'You know, mamma, it is quite impossible not to help thinking of it,' said Mary.

'But do you know them? I never spoke to Mr Crawley in my life, and I do not think I ever saw her.'

'Pity her! Pity is no word for it, mamma. My heart bleeds for them. And yet I do not believe for a moment

that he stole the cheque. How can it be possible? For though he may have been in debt because they have

been so very, very, poor, yet we all know that he has been an excellent clergyman. When the Robartses were

dining here last, I heard Mrs Robarts say that for piety and devotion to his duties she had hardly ever seen

'What a pity it is that the Arabins should be away just now when he is in such trouble.' And in this way the

mother and daughter went on discussing the question of the clergyman's guild in spite of Mrs Walker's

expressed desire that nothing more might be said about it. But Mrs Walker, like many other mothers, was apt

to be more free in converse with her daughter than she was with her son. While they were thus talking the

father came in from his office, and then the subject was dropped. He was a man between fifty and sixty years

of age, with grey hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent, but still gifted with that amount of personal

comeliness which comfortable position and the respect of others will generally seem to give. A man rarely

'You look tired. Come and sit down for a few minutes before you dress. Mary, get your father's slippers.'

'Thanks, my darling,' said the father. And then he whispered to his wife, as soon as Mary was out of hearing.

'I told her at first that I could not see her, and begged her not to speak to me about it. I tried to make her

'I asked to go in to you, but she declined. She said you could do nothing for her.'

'No, indeed. She think him guilty! Nothing on earthor from heaven either, as I take it, would make her

'So did I. But what is the good of loving her? Thank you, dearest. I'll get your slippers for you some day,

The whole county was astir with this matter of this alleged guilt of the Reverend Mr Crawleythe whole

county almost as keenly as the family of Mr Walker, of Silverbridge. The crime laid to his charge was the

theft of a cheque for twenty pounds, which he was said to have stolen out of a pocketbook left or dropped in

his house, and to have passed as money into the hands of one Fletcher, a butcher of Silverbridge, to whom he

was indebted. Mr Crawley was in those days the perpetual curate of Hogglestock, a pariah in the northern

extremity of East Barsetshire; a man known by all who knew anything of him to be very pooran unhappy,

moody, disappointed man, upon whom the troubles of the world always seemed to come with a double

weight. But he had ever been respected as a clergyman, since his old friend Mr Arabin, the dean of

Barchester, had given him the small incumbency which he now held. Though moody, unhappy, and

disappointed, he was a hardworking, conscientious pastor, among the poor people with whom his lot was

cast; for in the parish of Hogglestock there resided only a few farmers higher in degree than field labourers,

brickmakers, and such like. Mr Crawley had now passed some ten years of his life at Hogglestock; and

during those years he had worked very hard to do his duty, struggling to teach the people around him perhaps

too much of the mystery, but something of the comfort, of religion. That he had became popular in his parish

cannot be said of him. He was not a man to make himself popular in any position. I have said that he was

moody and disappointed. He was even worse than this; he was morose, sometimes almost to insanity. There

had been days in which even his wife had found it impossible to deal with him otherwise than as with an

acknowledged lunatic. And this was known among the farmers, who talked about their clergyman among

themselves as though he were a madman. But among the very poor, among the brickmakers of Hoggle

Enda lawless, drunken, terribly rough lot of humanityhe was held in high respect; for they knew that he

lived hardly, as they lived; that he worked hard, as they worked; and that the outside world was hard to him,

as it was to them; and there had been an apparent sincerity of godliness about the man, and a manifest

struggle to do his duty in spite of the world's illusage, which had won its way even with the rough; so that

Mr Crawley's name had stood high with many in the parish, in spite of the unfortunate peculiarity of his

disposition. This was the man who was now accused of stealing a cheque for twenty pounds.

But before the circumstances of the alleged theft are stated, a word or two must be said as to Mr Crawley's

family. It is declared that a good wife is a crown to her husband, but Mrs Crawley has been much more than a

crown to him. As had regarded all the inner life of the manall that portion of his life which had not been

passed in the pulpit or in pastoral teachingshe had been crown, throne, and sceptre all in one. That she had

endured with him and on his behalf the miseries of poverty, and the troubles of a life which had known no

smiles, is perhaps not to be alleged as much to her honour. She had joined herself to him for better or worse,

and it was her manifest duty to bear such things; wives always have to bear them, knowing when they marry

that they must take their chance. Mr Crawley might have been a bishop, and Mrs Crawley, when she married

him, perhaps thought it probable that such would be his fortune. Instead of that he was now, just as he was

approaching his fiftieth year, a perpetual curate, with an income of one hundred and thirty pounds per

annumand a family. That had been Mrs Crawley's luck in life, and of course she bore it. But she had also

done much more than this. She had striven hard to be contented, or, rather, to appear to be contented, when he

had been most wretched and most moody. She had struggled to conceal from him her own conviction to his

halfinsanity, treating him at the same time with the respect due to an honoured father of a family, and with

the careful measured indulgence fit for a sick and wayward child. In all the terrible troubles of their life her

courage had been higher than his. The metal of which she was made had been tempered to a steel which was

very rare and fine, but the rareness and fineness of which he had failed to appreciate. He had often told her

that she was without pride, because she was stooped to receive from others on his behalf and on behalf of

their children, things which were needful, but which she could not buy. He had told her that she was a beggar,

and that it was better to starve than to beg. She had borne the rebuke without a word in reply, and had then

begged again for him, and had endured the starvation herself. Nothing in their poverty had, for years past,

been a shame to her; but every accident of their poverty was still, and ever had been, a living disgrace to him.

They had had many children, and three were still alive. Of the eldest, Grace Crawley, we shall hear much in

the coming story. She was at this time nineteen years old, and there were those who said, that in spite of her

poverty, her shabby outward apparel, and a certain thin, unfledged, unrounded form of person, a want of

fulness in the lines of her figure, she was the prettiest girl in that part of the world. She was living now at a

school in Silverbridge, where for the last year she had been a teacher; and there were many in Silverbridge

who declared that very bright prospects were opening to herthat young Major Grantly of Crosby Lodge,

who, though a widower with a young child, was the cynosure of all female eyes in and around Silverbridge,

had found beauty in her thin face, and that Grace Crawley's fortune was made in the teeth, as it were, of the

prevailing illfortune of the family. Bob Crawley, who was two years younger, was not at Malbro' School,

from whence it was intended that he should proceed to Cambridge, and be educated there at the expense of

his godfather Dean Arabin. In this also the world saw a stroke of good luck. But then nothing was lucky to

Mr Crawley. Bob, indeed, who had done well at school, might do well at Cambridgemight achieve great

things there. But Mr Crawley would almost preferred that the boy should work in the fields, than that he

should be educated in a manner so manifestly eleemosynary. And then his clothes! How was he to be

provided with clothes fit either for school or for college? But the dean and Mrs Crawley between them

managed this, leaving Mr Crawley very much in the dark, as Mrs Crawley was in the habit of leaving him.

Then there was a younger daughter, Jane, still at home, who passed her life between her mother's worktable

and her father's Greek, mending linen, and learning to scan iambicsfor Mr Crawley in his early days had

And now there had come upon them all this terribly crushing disaster. That poor Mr Crawley had gradually

got himself into a mess of debt at Silverbridge, from which he had been quite unable to extricate himself, was

generally known by all the world both of Silverbridge and Hogglestock. To a great many it was known that

Dean Arabin had paid money for him, very much contrary to his own consent, and that he had quarrelled, or

attempted to quarrel, with the dean in consequencehad so attempted, although the money had in part

passed through his own hands. There had been one creditor, Fletcher, the butcher at Silverbridge, who had of

late been specially hard upon poor Crawley. This man, who had not been without good nature in his dealings,

had heard stories of the dean's goodwill and such like, and had loudly expressed his opinion that the

perpetual curate of Hogglestock would show a higher pride in allowing himself to be indebted to a rich

brother clergyman, than in remaining under the thrall of a butcher. And thus a rumour had grown up. And hen

the butcher had written repeated letters to the bishopto bishop Proudie of Barchester, who had first caused

his chaplain to answer them, and had told Mr Crawley somewhat roundly what was his opinion of a

clergyman who ate meat and did not pay for it. But nothing that bishop could say or do enabled Mr Crawley

to pay the butcher. It was very grievous to such a man as Mr Crawley to receive these letters from such a man

as Bishop Proudie; but the letters came, and made festering wounds, but then there was an end of them. And

at last there had come forth from the butcher's shop a threat that if the money were not paid by a certain date,

printed bills would be posted about the country. All who heard of this in Silverbridge were very angry with

Mr Fletcher, for no one there had ever known a tradesman to take such a step before; but Fletcher swore that

he would persevere, and defended himself by showing that six or seven months since, in the spring of the

year, Mr Crawley had been paying money in Silverbridge, but had paid none to himto him who had been

not only his earliest, but his most enduring creditor. 'He got money from the dean in March,' said Mr Fletcher

to Mr Walker 'and he paid twelve pounds ten to Green, and seventeen pounds to Grobury the baker.' It was

that seventeen pounds to Grobury, the baker, for flour, which made the butcher fixedly determined to smite

the poor clergyman hip and thigh. 'And he paid money to Hall and to Mrs Holt, and to a deal more; but he

never came near my shop. If he had even shown himself, I would not have so much about it.' And then a day

before the day named, Mrs Crawley had come into Silverbridge, and had paid the butcher twenty pounds in

Some six weeks after this, inquiry began to be made as to a certain cheque for twenty pounds drawn by Lord

Lufton on his bankers in London, which cheque had been lost in the early spring by Mr Soames, Lord

Lufton's man of business in Barsetshire, together with a pocketbook in which it had been folded. This

pocketbook Soames had believed himself to have left it at Mr Crawley's house, and had gone so far, even at

the time of the loss, as to express his absolute conviction that he had so left it. He was in the habit of paying a

rentcharge to Mr Crawley on behalf of Lord Lufton, amounting to twenty pounds four shillings, every

halfyear. Lord Lufton held the large tithes of Hogglestock, and paid annually a sum of forty pounds eight

shillings to the incumbent. This amount was, as a rule, remitted punctually by Mr Soames through the post.

On the occasion now spoken of, he had had some reason to visit Hogglestock, and had paid the money

personally to Mr Crawley. Of so much there is no doubt. But he had paid it by a cheque drawn by himself on

his own bankers at Barchester, and that cheque had been cashed in the ordinary way on the next morning. On

returning to his own house in Barchester he had missed his pocketbook, and had written to Mr Crawley to

make inquiry. There had been no money in it, beyond the cheque drawn by Lord Lufton for twenty pounds.

Mr Crawley had answered this letter by another, saying that no pocketbook had been found in his house. All

In October, Mrs Crawley paid twenty pounds to Fletcher, the butcher, and in November Lord Lufton's cheque

was traced back through the Barchester bank to Mr Crawley's hands. A brickmaker of Hoggle End, much

favoured by Mr Crawley, had asked for change over the counter of this Barchester banknot, as will be

understood, the bank on which the cheque was drawnand had received it. The accommodation had been

refused to the man at first, but when he presented the cheque the second day, bearing Mr Crawley' name on

the back of it, together with a note from Mr Crawley himself, the money had been given for it; and the

identical notes so paid had been given to Fletcher, the butcher on the next day by Mrs Crawley. When inquiry

was made, Mr Crawley stated that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr Soames, on behalf of the

rentcharge due to him by Lord Lufton. But the error of this statement was at once made manifest. There was

the cheque, signed by Mr Soames himself, for the exact amounttwenty pounds four shillings. As he

himself declared, he had never in his life paid money on behalf of Lord Lufton by a cheque drawn on his

lordship. The cheque given by Lord Lufton, and which had been lost, had been a private matter between

them. His lordship had simply wanted change in his pocket, and his agent had given it to him. Mr Crawley

was speedily shown to be altogether wrong in the statement made to account for the possession of the cheque.

Then he became very moody and would say nothing further. But his wife, who had known nothing of his first

statement when made, came forward and declared that she believed the cheque for twenty pounds to be part

of a present given by Dean Arabin to her husband in April last. There had been, she said, great

heartburnings about this gift, and she hardly dared to speak to her husband on the subject. An execution had

been threatened in the house by Grobury, the baker, of which the dean had heard. Then there had been some

scenes at the deanery between her husband and the dean and Mrs Arabin, as to which she had subsequently

heard much from Mrs Arabin. Mrs Arabin had told her that money had been givenand at last taken.

Indeed, so much had been very apparent, as bills had been paid to the amount of at least fifty pounds. When

the threat made by the butcher had reached her husband's ears, the effect upon him had been very grievous.

All this was the story told by Mrs Crawley to Mr Walker, the lawyer, when he was pushing his inquiries. She,

poor woman, at any rate told all she knew. Her husband had told her one morning, when the butcher's threat

was weighing heavily on his mind, speaking to her in such a humour that she found it impossible to cross

question him, that he had still money left, though it was money which he had hoped that he would not be

driven to use; and he had given her four five pound notes and had told her to go to Silverbridge and satisfy

the man who was so eager for his money. She had done so, and had felt no doubt that the money so

But how could she explain her husband's statements as to the cheque, which had been shown to be altogether

false? All this passed between Mr Walker and Mrs Crawley, and the lawyer was very gentle with her. In the

first stages of the inquiry he had simply desired to learn the truth, and place the clergyman above suspicion.

Latterly, being bound as he was to follow up officially, he would not have seen Mrs Crawley, had he been

able to escape that lady's importunity. 'Mr Walker,' she had said, at last, 'you do not know my husband. No

one knows him but I. It is hard to have to tell you all of our troubles.' 'If I can lessen them, trust me that I will

do so,' said the lawyer. 'No one, I think, can lessen them in this world,' said the lady. 'The truth is, sir, that my

husband often knows not what he says. When he declared that the money had been paid to him by Mr

Soames, most certainly he thought so. There are times when in his misery he knows not what he sayswhen

Up to this period Mr Walker had not suspected Mr Crawley of anything dishonest, nor did he suspect him as

yet. The poor man had probably received the money from the dean, and had told the lie about it, not choosing

to own that he had taken the money from his rich friend, and thinking that there would be no further inquiry.

He had been very foolish, and that would be the end of it. Mr Soames was by no means so goodnatured in

his belief. 'How should my pocketbook have got into Dean Arabin's hands?' said Mr Soames, almost

triumphantly. 'And then I felt sure at the time that I had left it at Crawley's house!'

Mr Walker wrote a letter to the dean, who at that moment was in Florence, on his way to Rome, from whence

he was going on to the Holy Land. There came back a letter from Mr Arabin, saying that on the 17th March

he had given to Mr Crawley a sum of fifty pounds and that the payment had been made in five Bank of

England notes of ten pounds each, which had been handed to his friend in the library at the deanery. The

letter was very short, and, may, perhaps, be described as having been almost curt. Mr Walker, in his anxiety

to do the best he could for Mr Crawley, had simply asked a question as to the nature of the transaction

between the two gentlemen, saying that no doubt the dean's answer would clear up a little mystery which

existed at present respecting a cheque for twenty pounds. The dean in answer simply stated the fact as it had

been given above; but he wrote to Mr Crawley begging to know what was in truth this new difficulty, and

offering any assistance in his power. He explained all the circumstances of the money, as he remembered

them. The sun advanced had certainly consisted of fifty pounds, and there had certainly been five Bank of

England notes. He had put the notes into an envelope, which he had not closed, but had addressed to Mr

Crawley, and had placed this envelope in his friend's hands. He went on to say that Mrs Arabin would have

written, but the was in Paris with her son. Mrs Arabin was to remain in Paris during his absence in the Holy

Land, and meet him in Italy on his return. As she was so much nearer at hand, the dean expressed a hope that

The letter to Mr Walker was conclusive as to the dean's money. Mr Crawley had not received Lord Lufton's

cheque from the dean. Then whence had he received it? The poor wife was left by the lawyer to obtain further

information from her husband. Ah, who can tell how terrible were the scenes between that poor pair of

wretches, as the wife endeavoured to learn the truth from her miserable, halfmaddened husband! That her

husband had been honest throughout, she had not any shadow of doubt. She did not doubt that to her at least

he endeavoured to tell the truth, as far as his poor racked imperfect memory would allow him to remember

what was true and what was not true. The upshot of it all was that the husband declared that he still believed

that the money had come to him from the dean. He had kept it by him, not wishing to use it if he could help

it. He had forgotten itso he said at timeshaving understood from Arabin that he was to have fifty

pounds, and having received more. If it had not come to him from the dean, then it had been sent to him by

the Prince of Evil for his utter undoing; and there were times in which he seemed to think that such had been

the manner in which the fatal cheque had reached him. In all that he said he was terribly confused,

contradictory, unintelligiblespeaking almost as a madman might speakending always in declaring that

the cruelty of the world had been too much for him, that the waters were meeting over his head, and praying

to God's mercy to remove him from this world. It need hardly be said that his poor wife in these days had a

She at last acknowledged to Mr Walker that she could not account for the twenty pounds. She herself would

write again to the dean about it, but she hardly hoped for any further assistance there. 'The dean's answer was

plain,' said Mr Walker. 'He says that he gave Mr Crawley five tenpound notes, and those five notes we have

traced to Mr Crawley's hands.' Then Mrs Crawley could say nothing further beyond making protestations of

I must ask the reader to make acquaintance with Major Grantly of Cosby Lodge, before he is introduced to

the family of Mr Crawley, at their parsonage at Hogglestock. It has been said that Major Grantly had thrown

a favourable eye on Grace Crawleyby which report occasion was given to all men and women in those

parts to hint that the Crawleys, with all their piety and humility, were very cunning, and that one of the

Grantlys wasto say the least of itvery soft, admitted as it was throughout the county of Barsetshire, that

there was no family therein more widely awake to the affairs generally of this world and the next combined,

than the family of which Archdeacon Grantly was the respected head and patriarch. Mrs Walker, the most

goodnatured woman in Silverbridge, had acknowledged to her daughter that she could not understand

itthat she could not see anything at all in Grace Crawley. Mr Walker had shrugged his shoulders and

expressed a confident belief that Major Grantly had not a shilling of his own beyond his halfpay and his late

wife's fortune, which was only six thousand pounds. Others, who were illnatured, had declared that Grace

Crawley was little better than a beggar, and that she could not possibly have acquired the manners of a

gentlewoman. Fletcher the butcher had wondered whether the major would pay his future fatherinlaw's

debts; and Dr Tempest, the old Rector of Silverbridge, whose four daughters were all as yet unmarried, had

turned up his old nose, and had hinted that halfpay majors did not get caught in marriage so easily as that.

Such and such like had been the expressions of the opinions of men and women in Silverbridge. But the

matter had been discussed further afield than at Silverbridge, and had been allowed to intrude itself as a most

unwelcome subject into the family conclave of the archdeacon's rectory. To those who have not as yet learned

the fact from the public character and wellappreciated reputation of the man, let it be known that

Archdeacon Grantly was at this time, as he had been for many years previously, Archdeacon of Barchester

and Rector of Plumstead Episcopi. A rich and prosperous man he had even beenthough he also had had his

sore troubles, as we all havehis having arisen chiefly from want of that higher ecclesiastical promotion

which his soul had coveted, and for which the whole tenor of his life had especially fitted him. Now, in his

green old age, he had ceased to covet, but had not ceased to repine. He had ceased to covet aught for himself,

but still coveted much for his children; and for him such a marriage as this which was now suggested for his

son, was encompassed almost with the bitterness of death. 'I think it would kill me,' he said to his wife; 'by

A daughter of the archdeacon had made a splendid matrimonial allianceso splendid that its history was at

the time known to all the aristocracy of the county, and had not been altogether forgotten by any of those who

keep themselves well instructed in the details of the peerage. Griselda Grantly had married Lord Dumbello,

the eldest don of the Marquis of Hartletopthan whom no English nobleman was more puissant, if broad

acres, many castles, high title, and stars and ribbons are any sign of puissanceand she was now, herself,

Marchioness of Hartletop, with a little Lord Dumbello of her own. The daughter's visits to the parsonage of

her father were of necessity rare, such necessity having come from her own altered sphere of life. A

Marchioness of Hartletop has special duties which will hardly permit her to devote herself frequently to the

humdrum society of a clerical mother and father. That it would be so, father and mother had understood when

they sent the fortunate girl forth to a higher world. But, now and again, since her august marriage, she had

laid her coroneted head upon one of the old rectory pillows for a night or so, and, on such occasions all the

Plumsteadians had been loud in praise of her condescension. Now it happened that when this second and

more aggravated blast of the evil wind reached the rectorythe renewed waft as to Major Grantly's

infatuation regarding Miss Grace Crawley, which, on its renewal, seemed to bring with it something of a

confirmationit chanced, I say, that at that moment Griselda, Marchioness of Hartletop, was gracing the

I am not quite sure that the mother would have been equally quick to ask her daughter's advice, had she been

left in the matter entirely to her own propensities. Mrs Grantly had ever loved her daughter dearly, and had

been very proud of that great success in life which Griselda had achieved; but in late years, the child had

become, as a woman, separate from the mother, and there had arisen not unnaturally, a break of that close

confidence which in early years had existed between them. Griselda, Marchioness of Hartletop, was more

than ever the daughter of the archdeacon, even though he might never see her. Nothing could rob him of the

honour of such a progenynothing, even though there had been an actual estrangement between them. But it

was not so with Mrs Grantly. Griselda had done very well, and Mrs Grantly had rejoiced; but she had lost her

child. Now the major, who had done well also, though in a much lesser degree, was still her child, moving in

the same sphere of life with her, still dependent in a great degree upon his father's bounty, a neighbour in the

county, a frequent visitor at the parsonage, and a visitor who could be received without any of that trouble

that attended the unfrequent comings of Griselda, the Marchioness, to the home of her youth. And for this

reason Mrs Grantly, terribly put out as she was at the idea of a marriage between her son and one standing so

poorly in the world's esteem as Grace Crawley, would not have brought forward the matter before her

daughter, had she been left to her own desires. A marchioness in one's family is a tower of strength, no doubt;

but there are counsellors so strong that we do not wish to trust them, lest in the trusting we ourselves be

overwhelmed by their strength. Now Mrs Grantly was by no means willing to throw her influence into the

But the titled daughter was consulted and gave her advice. On the occasion of the present visit to Plumstead

she had consented to lay her head for two nights on the parsonage pillows, and on the second evening her

brother the major was to come over from Cosby Lodge to meet her. Before his coming the affair of Grace

'It would break my heart, Griselda,'said the archdeacon, piteously'and your mother's.'

'There is nothing against the girl's character,' said Mrs Grantly, 'and the father and mother are gentlefolk by

'I can't say. There is no knowing. They told me today in Barchester that Soames is pressing a case against

'Oh, Lord Lufton's man of business!' There was something of a sneer in the tone of the lady's voice as she

'I am told,' continued the archdeacon, 'that Soames declares the cheque was taken from a pocketbook which

'You don't mean to say, archdeacon, that you think that Mr Crawleya clergymanstole it!' said Mrs

'I don't say anything of the kind, my dear. But supposing Mr Crawley to be as honest as the sun, you wouldn't

'Certainly not,' said the mother. 'It would be an unfitting marriage. The poor girl has no advantages.'

'He is not able to pay the baker's bill. I always though Arabin was very wrong to place such a man in such a

parish as Hogglestock. Of course the family could not live there.' The Arabin here spoken of was Dr Arabin,

dean of Barchester. The dean and archdeacon had married sisters, and there was much intimacy between the

'Fothergill told me only yesterday, that he sees her almost every day,' said the father. 'What are we to do,

Griselda? You know how headstrong Henry is.' The marchioness sat quite still; looking at the fire, and made

'There is nothing for it but that you should tell him what you think,' said the mother.

'If his sister were to speak to him, it might do much,' said the archdeacon. To this Mrs Grantly said nothing;

but Mrs Grantly's daughter understood very well that her mother's confidence in her was not equal to her

father's. Lady Hartletop said nothing, but still sat, with impassive face, and eyes fixed upon the fire. 'I think

that if you were to speak to him, Griselda, and tell him that he would disgrace his family, he would be

ashamed to go on with such a marriage,' said the father. 'He would feel, connected as he is with Lord

'I am sure he ought to feel it,' said the father. They were all silent, and sat looking at the fire.

'I suppose, papa, you allow Henry an income,' said Lady Hartletop, after a while.

'Then I think I should tell him that that must depend upon his conduct. Mamma, if you won't mind ringing the

bell, I will send for Cecile, and go upstairs and dress.' Then the marchioness went upstairs to dress, and in

about an hour the major arrived in his dogcart. He was also allowed to go upstairs to dress before anything

'Griselda is right,' said the archdeacon, speaking to his wife out of his dressingroom. 'She is always right. I

'But you do not mean to say that in any event you would stop Henry's income?' Mrs Grantly was also

'Upon my word, I don't know. As a father I would do anything to prevent such a marriage as that.'

'But if he did marry her in spite of the threat? And he would if he had once said so.'

'Is a father's word, then, to go for nothing; and a father who allows his son eight hundred a year? If he told the

'My dear, they'd know as well as I do, that you would give way after three months.'

'Of course you'd give way, and of course we should have the young woman here, and of course we should

The idea of having Grace Crawley as a daughter at the Plumstead Rectory was too much for the archdeacon,

and he resented it by additional vehemence to the tone of his voice, and a nearer personal approach to the

wife of his bosom. All unaccoutred as he was, he stood in the doorway between the two rooms, and thence

fulminated at his wife his assurances that he would never allow himself to be immersed in such a depth of

humility as that she had suggested. 'I can tell you this, then, that if ever she comes here, I shall take care to be

'That is just what I cannot do. If I could do as I pleased, I would put a stop to it at once.'

'It seems to me that you want to encourage him. A child about sixteen years of age!'

'What does it matter if she's fiftynine? Think of what her bringing up has been. Think what it would be to

have all the Crawleys in our house for ever, and all their debts, and all their disgrace!'

'You'll see. The whole county has heard of the affair of this twenty pounds. Look at that dear girl upstairs,

who has been such a comfort to us. Do you think it would be fit that she and her husband should meet such a

'I don't think it would do them a bit of harm,' said Mrs Grantly. 'But there would be no chance of that, seeing

'Then you prefer the Crawleys, I suppose. This is what you get from Eleanor's teaching.' Eleanor was the

dean's wife, and Mrs Grantly's younger sister. 'It has always been a sorrow to me that I ever brought Arabin

'I never asked you to bring him, archdeacon. But nobody was so glad as you when he proposed to Eleanor.'

'Well, the long and the short of it is this, I shall tell Henry tonight that if he makes a fool of himself with this

girl, he must not look to me any longer for an income. He has about six thousand a year of his own, and if he

chooses to throw himself away, he had better go and live in the south of France, or in Canada, or where he

On hearing this the archdeacon slammed the door, and retired to his own washing apparatus. At the present

moment he was very angry with his wife, but then he was so accustomed to such anger, and was so well

aware that it in truth meant nothing, that it did not make him unhappy. The archdeacon and Mrs Grantly had

now been man and wife for more than quarter of a century and had never in truth quarrelled. He had the most

profound respect for her judgment, and the most implicit reliance on her conduct. She had never yet offended

him, or caused him to repent the hour in which he had made her Mrs Grantly. But she had come to understand

that she might use a woman's privilege with her tongue; and she used itnot altogether to his comfort. On

the present occasion he was the more annoyed because he felt that she might be right. 'It would be a positive

disgrace, and I never would see him again,' he said to himself. And yet as he said it, he knew that he would

not have the strength of character to carry him through a prolonged quarrel with his son. 'I never would see

hernever, never!' he said to himself. 'And than such an opening as he might have in his sister's house!'

Major Grantly had been a successful man in lifewith the one exception of having lost the mother of his

child within a twelvemonth of his marriage and within a few hours of that child's birth. He had served in

India as a very young man, and had been decorated with the Victoria Cross. Then he had married a lady with

some money, and had left the active service of the army, with the concurring advice of his own family and

that of his wife. He had taken a small place in his father's county, but the wife for whose comfort he had

taken it had died before she was permitted to see it. Nevertheless he had gone to reside there, hunting a good

deal and farming a little, making himself popular in the district, and keeping up the good name of Grantly in a

successful way, tillalas!,it had seemed good to him to throw those favouring eyes on poor Grace

Crawley. His wife had now been dead just two years, and he was still under thirty, no could deny it would be

right that he should marry again. No one did deny it. His father had hinted that he ought to do so, and had

generously whispered that if some little increase to the major's present income were needed, he might

possibly be able to do something. 'What is the good of keeping it?' the archdeacon had said in a liberal

afterdinner warmth; 'I only want it for your brother and yourself.' The brother was a clergyman.

And the major's mother had strongly advised him to marry again without loss of time. 'My dear Henry,' she

had said, 'you'll never be younger, and youth does go for something. As for dear little Edith, being a girl, she

'No; they are not her nieces but her cousins. Emily Dunstable is very handsome;and as for money!'

'As far as I am concerned, I should like to have everything or nothing,' the major said, laughing. Now for him

to think of Grace Crawley after thatof Grace Crawley who had no money, and no particular birth, and not

even beauty herselfso at least Mrs Grantly saidwho had not even enjoyed the ordinary education of a

lady, was too bad. Nothing had been wanting to Emily Dunstable's education, and it was calculated that she

The disappointment of the mother would be the more sore because she had gone to work upon her little

scheme with reference to Miss Emily Dunstable, and had at first, as she thought, seen her way to successto

success in spite of the disparaging words her son had spoken to her. Mrs Thorne's house at Chaldicotesor

Dr Thorne's house as it should, perhaps, be more commonly called, for Dr Thorne was the husband of Mrs

Thornewas in these days the pleasantest house in Barsetshire. No one saw so much company as the

Thornes, or spent so much money in so pleasant a way. The great county families, the Pallisers and the De

Courcys, the Luftons and the Greshams, were no doubt grander, and some of them were perhaps richer than

the Chaldicote Thornesas they were called to distinguish them from the Thornes of Ullathorne; but none of

these people were so pleasant in their ways, so free in their hospitality, or so easy in their modes of living, as

the doctor and his wife. When first Chaldicotes, a very old country seat, had by the chances of war fallen into

their hands and been newly furnished, and newly decorated, and newly gardened, and newly greenhoused and

hotwatered by them, many of the county people had turned up their noses at them. Dear old Lady Lufton

had done so, and had been greatly grievedsaying nothing, however, of her grief, when her son and

daughterinlaw had broken away from her, and submitted themselves to the blandishments of the doctor's

wife. And the Grantlys had stood aloof, partly influenced, no doubt, by their dear and intimate old friend

Miss Monica Thorne of Ullathorne, a lady of the very old school, who, though good as gold and kind as

charity, could not endure that an interloping Mrs Thorne, who never had a grandfather, should come to

honour and glory in the county, simply because of her riches. Miss Monica Thorne stood out, but Mrs

Grantly gave way, and having once found that Dr Thorne, and Mrs Thorne, and Emily Dunstable, and

Chaldicote House together, were very charming. And the major had been once there with her, and had made

himself very pleasant, and there certainly had been some little passage of incipient love between him and

Miss Dunstable, as to which Mrs Thorne, who managed everything, seemed to be well pleased. This had been

after the first mention made by Mrs Grantly to her son of Emily Dunstable's name, but before she had heard

any faintest whispers of his fancy for Grace Crawley; and she had therefore been justified in hopingalmost

in expecting, that Emily Dunstable would be her daughterinlaw, and was therefore the more aggrieved

The dinnerparty at the rectory comprised none but the Grantly family. The marchioness had written to say

that she preferred to have it so. The father had suggested that the Thornes of Ullathorne, very old friends,

might be asked, and the Greshams of Boxall Hill, and had even promised to endeavour to get old Lady Lufton

over to the rectory, Lady Lufton having in former years been Griselda's warm friend. But Lady Hartletop had

preferred to see her dear mother and father in privacy. Her brother Henry she would be glad to meet, and

hoped to make some arrangement with him for a short visit to Hartlebury, her husband's place in

Shropshireas to which latter hint, it may, however, be at once said that nothing further was spoken after the

Crawley alliance had been suggested. And there had been a very sore point mooted by the daughter in a

request made to her father that she might not be called upon to meet her grandfather, her mother's father. Mr

Harding, a clergyman of Barchester, who was now stricken in years.'Papa would not have come,' said Mrs

'Your father has odd ways sometimes, my dear. You know how fond I am of having him here myself.'

'It does not signify,' said Mrs Grantly. 'Do not let us say anything more about it. Of course we cannot have

everything. I am told the child does her duty in her sphere of life, and I suppose we ought to be contented.'

Then Mrs Grantly went up to her own room, and there she cried. Nothing was said to the major on the

unpleasant subject of the Crawleys before dinner. He met his sister in the drawingroom, and was allowed to

kiss her noble cheek. 'I hope Edith is well, Henry,' said the sister. 'Quite well; and little Dumbello is the same,

I hope?' 'Thank you, yes; quite well.' The major never made inquiries after the august family, or would allow

it to appear that he was conscious of being shone upon by the wife of a marquis. Any adulation which

Griselda received of that kind came from her father, and therefore, unconsciously she had learned to think

that her father was more better bred than the other members of her family, and more fitted by nature to move

in that sacred circle to which she herself had been exalted. We need not dwell upon the dinner, which was but

a dull affair. Mrs Grantly strove to carry on the family party exactly as it would have been carried on had her

daughter married the son of some neighbouring squire; but she herself was conscious of the struggle, and the

fact of there being a struggle produced failure. The rector's servants treated the daughter of the house with

special awe, and the marchioness herself moved, and spoke, and ate, and drank with a cold magnificence,

which I think had become a second nature with her, but which was not on that account the less oppressive.

Even the archdeacon, who enjoyed something in that which was so disagreeable to his wife, felt a relief when

he was left alone after dinner with his son. He felt relieved as his son got up to open the door for his mother

and sister, but was aware at the same time that he had before him a most difficult and possibly a most

disastrous task. His dear son Henry was not a man to be talked smoothly out of, or into, any propriety. He had

a will of his own, and having hitherto been a successful man, who in youth had fallen into few youthful

troubleswho had never justified his father in using stern parental authoritywas not now inclined to bend

his neck. 'Henry,' said the archdeacon, 'what are you drinking? That's '34 port, but it's not just what it should

'I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you young fellows have become so desperately temperate.'

'Yes, she is. It's always easy for women to look well when they're rich.' How would Grace Crawley look,

then, who was poor as poverty itself, and who would remain poor, if his son was fool enough to marry her?

That was the train of thought which ran through the archdeacon's mind. 'I do not think much of riches,' said

he, 'but it is always well that a gentleman's wife or a gentleman's daughter should have a sufficiency to

'Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A rumour has reached your mother and me, which we don't believe

for a moment, but which, nevertheless, makes us unhappy even as a report. They say that there is a young

'Is there any reason why I should not become attached to a young woman in Silverbridge?though I hope

any young woman to whom I may become attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a young lady.'

The archdeacon looked across at his son's face, and his heart sank within him. His son's voice and his son's

eyes seemed to tell him two things. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about Grace Crawley

was true; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not to be talked out of his folly. 'But you are not engaged

to anyone, are you?' said the archdeacon. The son did not at first make any answer, and then the father

repeated the question. 'Considering our mutual positions, Henry, I think you ought to tell me if you are

'I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the first opportunity of telling you or my mother.'

'Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more plainly. The young woman whose name I have heard is

daughter to that Mr Crawley who is perpetual curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there could be nothing in it.'

'It is rather hard to be crossquestioned in this way on such a subject. When you express yourself as thankful

that there is nothing in the rumour, I am forced to stop you, as otherwise it is possible that hereafter you may

'Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you are in love with Miss Crawley?' Then there was another pause,

during which the archdeacon sat looking for an answer; but the major never said a word. 'Am I to suppose

that you intend to lower yourself by marrying a young woman who cannot possibly have enjoyed any of the

advantages of a lady's education? I say nothing of the imprudence of the thing; nothing of her own want of

fortune; nothing of your having to maintain a whole family steeped in poverty; nothing of the debts and

character of the father, upon whom, as I understand, at this moment there rests a grave suspicion

'I have a right at any rate to tell you this, that if you so far disgrace yourself and me, I shall consider myself

bound to withdraw from you all the sanction which would be conveyed by my mycontinued assistance.'

'Then, sir, I think you would behave to me most cruelly. You advised me to give up my profession.'

'I claim the privilege of a man of my age to do as I please in such a matter as marriage. Miss Crawley is a

lady. Her father is a clergyman, as is mine. Her father's oldest friend is my uncle. There is nothing on earth

against her except her poverty. I do not think I ever heard of such cruelty on a father's part.'

'I have endeavoured to do my duty by you, sir, always; and by my mother. You can treat me in this way, if

you please, but it will not have any effect on my conduct. You can stop my allowance tomorrow, if you like

it. I had not yet made up my mind to make an offer to Miss Crawley, but I shall do so tomorrow morning.'

This was very bad indeed, and the archdeacon was extremely unhappy. He was by no means at heart a cruel

man. He loved his children dearly. If this disagreeable marriage were to take place, he would doubtless do

exactly as his wife had predicted. He would not stop his son's income for a single quarter; and, though he

went on telling himself that he would stop it, he knew in his own heart that any such severity was beyond his

power. He was a generous man in money mattershaving a dislike for poverty which was not

generousand for his own sake could not have endured to see a son of his in want. But he was terribly

anxious to exercise the power which the use of the threat might give him. 'Henry,' he said, 'you are treating

me badly, very badly. My anxiety has always been for the welfare of my children. Do you think that Miss

'Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the world; excepting that Griselda, who is not clever, would

'Griselda not clever! Good heavens!' Then there was another pause, and as the major said nothing, the father

continued his entreaties. 'Pray, pray think of what my wishes are, and your mother's. You are not committed

as yet. Pray think of us while there is time. I would rather double your income, if I saw you marry anyone that

'I have enough as it is, if I may only be allowed to know that it will not be capriciously withdrawn.' The

archdeacon filled his glass unconsciously, and sipped his wine, while he thought what further he might say.

Perhaps it might be better that he should say nothing further at the moment. The major, however, was

indiscreet, and pushed the question. 'May I understand, sir, that you threat is withdrawn, and that my income

'No, it will not.' Then the father got up hastily, pushed the decanter back angrily from his hand, and without

saying another word walked away into the drawingroom. That evening at the rectory was gloomy. The

archdeacon now and again said a word or two to his daughter, and his daughter answered him in

monosyllables. The major sat apart moodily, and spoke to no one. Mrs Grantly, understanding well what had

passed, knew that nothing could be done at the present moment to restore family comfort; so she sat by the

'Dear Henry,' said the mother to her son the next morning; 'think much of yourself and of your child, and of

'I will, mother,' said he. Then he went out and put on his wrapper, and got into his dogcart, and drove

himself to Silverbridge. He had not spoken to his father since they were in the diningroom on the previous

evening. When he started, the marchioness had not yet come downstairs; but at eleven she breakfasted, and at

twelve she also was taken away. Poor Mrs Grantly had not had much comfort from her children's visits.

Mrs Crawley had walked from Hogglestock to Silverbridge on the occasion of her visit to Mr Walker, the

attorney, and had been kindly sent back by that gentleman in his wife's little open carriage. The tidings which

she brought home with her to her husband were very grievous. The magistrates would sit on the next

Thursdayit was then Fridayand Mr Crawley had better appear before them to answer the charge made

by Mr Soames. He would be served with a summons, which he would obey of his own accord. There had

been many points very closely discussed between Walker and Mrs Crawley, as to which there had been great

difficulty in the choice of words which should be tender enough to convey to her the very facts as they stood.

Would Mr Crawley come, or must a policeman be sent to fetch him? The magistrate had already issued a

warrant for his apprehension. Such in truth was the fact, but they had agreed with Mr Walker, that as there

was no reasonable ground for anticipating any attempt at escape on the part of the reverend gentleman, the

lawyer might use what gentle means he could for ensuring the clergyman's attendance. Could Mrs Crawley

undertake to say that he would appear? Mrs Crawley did undertake either that her husband should appear on

the Thursday, or else that she would send over in the early part of the week and declare her inability to ensure

his appearance. In that case it was understood the policeman must come. Then Mr Walker had suggested that

Mr Crawley had better employ a lawyer. Upon this Mrs Crawley had looked beseechingly up into Mr

Walker's face, and had asked him to undertake the duty. He was of course obliged to explain that he was

already employed on the other side. Mr Soames had secured his services, and though he was willing to do all

in his power to mitigate the sufferings of the family, he could not abandon the duty he had undertaken. He

named another attorney, however, and then sent the poor woman home in his wife's carriage. 'I fear that

unfortunate man is guilty. I fear he is,' Mr Walker had said to his wife within ten minutes of the departure of

Mrs Crawley would not allow herself to be driven up to the garden gate before her own house, but had left

the carriage some three hundred yards off down the road and from thence she walked home. It was now quite

dark. It was nearly six in the evening on a wet December night, and although cloaks and shawls had been

supplied to her, she was wet and cold when she reached her home. But at such a moment, anxious as she was

to prevent the additional evil which would come to them from illness to herself she could not pass through to

her room till she had spoken to her husband. He was sitting in the one sittingroom on the left side of the

passage as the house was entered, and with him was their daughter Jane, a girl now nearly sixteen years of

age. There was no light in the room, and hardly more than a spark of fire showed in the grate. The father was

sitting on one side of the hearth, in an old armchair, and there he had sat for the last hour without speaking.

His daughter had been in and out of the room, and had endeavoured to gain his attention now and again by a

word, but he had never answered her, and had not even noticed her presence. At the moment when Mrs

Crawley's step was heard upon the gravel which led to the door, Jane was kneeling before the fire with a hand

upon her father's arm. She had tried to get her hand into his, but he had either been aware of the attempt, or

'Here is mamma, at last,' said Jane, rising to her feet as her mother entered the house.

'Are you all in the dark,' said Mrs Crawley, striving to speak in a voice that should not sound sorrowful.

'Yes, dear. It is raining. Get alight out of the kitchen, Jane, and I will go upstairs in two minutes.' Then when

Jane was gone, the wife made her way in the dark over to her husband's side, and spoke a word to him.

'I have been to Silverbridge. I have been to Mr Walker. He, at any rate, is very kind'

'I don't want his kindness. I want no man's kindness. Mr Walker is the attorney, I believe. Kind indeed!'

'I mean considerate. Josiah, let us to the best we can in this trouble. We have had others as heavy before.'

'But none to crush me as this will crush me. Well; what am I to do? Am I to go to prisontonight?' At this

moment his daughter returned with a candle, and the mother could not make her answer at once. It was a

wretched, povertystricken room. By degrees the carpet had disappeared, which had been laid down some

nine or ten years since, when they had first come to Hogglestock, and which even then had not been new.

Now nothing but a poor fragment of it remained in front of the fireplace. In the middle of the room there

was a table which had once been large; but one flap of it was gone altogether, and the other flap sloped

grievously towards the floor, the weakness of old age having fallen into its legs. There were two or three

smaller tables about, but they stood propped against walls, thence obtaining a security which their own

strength would not give them. At the further end of the room there was an ancient piece of furniture, which

was always called 'papa's secretary', at which Mr Crawley customarily sat and wrote his sermons, and did all

work that was done by him within the house. The man who had made it, some time in the last century, had

intended it to be a locked guardian for domestic documents, and the receptacle for all that was most private in

the house of some paterfamilias. But beneath the hands of Mr Crawley it always stood open; and with the

exception of the small space at which he wrote, was covered with dog'seared books, from nearly all of

There were there two odd volumes of Euripides, a Greek Testament, an Odyssey, a duodecimo Pindar, and a

miniature Anacreon. There was half a Horacethe two first books of the Odes at the beginning and the De

Arte Poetica at the end having disappeared. There was a little bit of a volume of Cicero, and there were

Caesar's 'Commentaries' in two volumes, so stoutly bound that they had defied the combined illusage of

time and the Crawley family. All these were piled upon the secretary, with many othersodd volumes of

sermons and the like; but the Greek and Latin lay at the top, and showed signs of frequent use. There was one

armchair in the rooma Windsor chair, as such used to be called, made soft by an old cushion in the back,

in which Mr Crawley sat when both he and his wife were in the room, and Mrs Crawley when he was absent.

And there was an old horsehair sofanow almost denuded of its horsehairbut that, like the tables required

the assistance of a friendly wall. Then there was a half a dozen of other chairsall of different sorts and

they completed the furniture of the room. It was not such a room as one would wish to see inhabited by an

beneficed clergyman of the Church of England; but they who know what money will do and what it will not,

will understand how easily a man with a family, and with a hundred and thirty pounds a year, may be brought

to the need of inhabiting such a chamber. When it is remembered that three pounds of meat a day, at

ninepence a pound, will cost over forty pounds a year, there need be no difficulty in understanding that it may

be so. Bread for such a family must cost at least twentyfive pounds. Clothes for five persons of whom one

must at any rate wear the raiment of a gentleman, can hardly be found for less than ten pounds a year a head.

Then there remains fifteen pounds for tea, sugar, beer, wages, education, amusements and the like. In such

Mrs Crawley could not answer her husband's question before her daughter, and was therefore obliged to

make another excuse for again sending her out of the room. 'Jane, dear,' she said, 'bring my things down to

the kitchen and I will change them by the fire. I will be there in two minutes, when I have had a word with

your papa.' The girl went immediately and then Mrs Crawley answered her husband's question. 'No, my dear;

'I have undertaken that you shall attend before the magistrates at Silverbridge in Thursday next, at twelve

'Do it! You mean, I suppose, to say that I must go there. Is anybody to come and fetch me?'

'Nobody will come. Only you must promise that you will be there. I have promised for you. You will go; will

you not?' She stood leaning over him, half embracing him, waiting for an answer; but for a while he gave

none. 'You will tell me that you will do what I have undertaken for you, Josiah?'

'I think I would rather that they fetched me. I think that I will not go myself.'

'And have policemen come for you in the parish! Mr Walker has promised that he will send over his phaeton.

'I want nobody's phaeton. If I go I will walk. If it were ten times the distance, and though I had not a shoe left

to my feet I would walk. If I go there at all, of my own accord, I will walk there.'

'What do I care for the parish? What matters who sees me now? I cannot be degraded as worse than I am.

'Everybody thinks me guilty. I see it in their eyes. The children know of it, and I hear whispers in the school.

'And yet you would have me go in a fine carriage to Silverbridge, as though to a wedding. If I am wanted let

At this moment Jane appeared, pressing her mother to take off her wet clothes, and Mrs Crawley went with

her daughter to the kitchen. The one redarmed young girl who was their only servant was sent away, and

then the mother and the child discussed how best they might prevail on the head of the family. 'But, mamma,

'No, my dear; he has done nothing wrong. He has made great mistakes, it is hard to make people understand

that he has not intentionally spoken untruths. He is ever thinking of other things, about the school, and his

'He has much to occupy his mind, and he forgets things which dwell in the memory of other people. He said

'AhI wish I knew. I should have said that I had seen every shilling that came into the house; but I know

'Yes; quite sure; as sure as I can be of anything. The dean told me he would give him fifty pounds, and the

fifty pounds came. I had them in my own hands. And he was written to say that it was so.'

To this Mrs Crawley made no reply. The idea that the cheque had been found by her husbandhad been

picked up as Jane had saidhad occurred also to Jane's mother. Mr Soames was confident that he had

dropped the pocketbook at the parsonage. Mrs Crawley had always disliked Mr Soames, thinking him to be

hard, cruel and vulgar. She would not have hesitated to believe him guilty of a falsehood, or even of direct

dishonesty, if by so believing she could in her own mind have found the means of reconciling her husband's

possession of the cheque with absolute truth on his part. But she could not do so. Even though Soames had,

with devilish premeditated malice, slipped the cheque into her husband's pocket, his having done so would

not account for her husband's having used the cheque when he found it there. She was driven to make excuses

for him which, valid as they might be with herself, could not be valid with others. He had said that Soames

had paid the cheque to him. That was clearly a mistake. He had said that the cheque had been given to him by

the dean. That was clearly another mistake. She knew, or thought she knew, that he, being such as he was,

might make blunders such as these, and yet be true. She believed that such statements might be blunders and

not falsehoodsso convinced was she that her husband's mind would not act at all times as do the minds of

other men. But having such a conviction she was driven to believe also that almost anything might be

possible. Soames may have been right, or he might have dropped, not the book, but the cheque. She had no

difficulty in presuming Soames to be wrong in any detail, if by so supposing she could make the exculpation

of her husband easier to herself. If villainy on the part of Soames was needful to her theory, Soames would

become to her a villain at onceof the blackest die. Might it not be possible that the cheque having thus

fallen into her husband's hands, he had come, after a while, to think that it had been sent to him by his friend,

the dean? And if it were so, would it be possible to make others so believe? That there was some mistake

which would be easily explained were her husband's mind lucid at all points, but which she could not explain

because of the darkness of his mind, she was thoroughly convinced. But were she herself to put forward such

a defence on her husband's part, she would in doing so be driven to say that he was a lunaticthat he was

incapable of managing the affairs of himself or his family. It seemed to her that she would be compelled to

have him proved to be either a thief or a madman. And yet she knew that he was neither. That he was not a

thief was as clear to her as the sun at noonday. Could she have lain on this man's bosom for twenty years, and

not yet have learned the secrets of the heart beneath? The whole mind of the man was, as she told herself,

within her grasp. He might have taken the twenty pounds; he might have taken it and spent it, though it was

not his own; but yet he was no thief. Nor was he a madman. No man more sane in preaching the gospel of his

Lord, in making intelligible to the ignorant the promises of his Saviour, ever got into a parish pulpit, or taught

in a parish school. The intellect of the man was as clear as running water in all things not appertaining to his

daily life, and its difficulties. He could be logical with a vengeanceso logical as to cause infinite trouble to

his wife, who, with all her good sense, was not logical. And he had Greek at his fingers' endsas his

daughter very well knew. And even to this day he would sometimes recite to them English poetry, lines after

lines, stanzas upon stanzas, in a sweet low melancholy voice, on long winter evenings when occasionally the

burden of his troubles would be lighter to him than was usual. Books in Latin and in French he read with as

much ease as in English, and took delight in such as came to him, when he would condescend to accept such

loans from the deanery. And there was at times a lightness of heart about the man. In the course of the last

winter he had translated into Greek irregular verse the very noble ballad of Lord Bateman, maintaining the

rhythm and the rhyme, and had repeated it with uncouth glee till his daughter knew it all by heart. And when

there had come to him a fivepound note from some admiring magazine editor as the price of the samestill

through the dean's handshe had brightened up his heart and had thought for an hour or two that even yet

the world would smile upon him. His wife knew well that he was not mad; but yet she knew that there were

dark moments with him, in which his mind was so much astray that he could not justly be called to account as

to what he might remember and what he might forget. How would it be possible to explain all this to a judge

and jury, so that they might neither say that he was dishonest, nor yet that he was mad?

'Perhaps he picked it up, and had forgotten,' her daughter said to her. Perhaps it was so, but she might not as

'It is a mystery, dear, as yet, which, with God's aid, will be unravelled. Of one thing we at least may be sure;

Mrs Crawley had many troubles during the next four or five days, of which the worst, perhaps, had reference

to the services of the Sunday which intervened between the day of her visit to Silverbridge and the sitting of

the magistrates. On the Saturday it was necessary that he should prepare his sermons, of which he preached

two every Sunday, though his congregation consisted only of farmers, brickmakers, and agricultural

labourers, who would willingly have dispensed with the second. Mrs Crawley proposed to send over to Mr

Robarts, a neighbouring clergyman, for the loan of a curate. Mr Robarts was a warm friend to the Crawleys,

and in such an emergency would probably have come himself; but Mr Crawley would not hear of it. The

discussion took place early on the Saturday morning, before it was as yet daylight, for the poor woman was

thinking day and night of her husband's troubles, and it had this good effect, that immediately after breakfast

he seated himself at his desk, and worked at his task as though he had forgotten all else in the world.

And on the Sunday morning he went into his school before the hour of the church service, as had been his

wont, and taught there as though everything with him was as usual. Some of the children were absent, having

heard of their teacher's tribulation, and having been told probably that he would remit his work; and for these

absent ones he sent in great anger. The poor bairns came creeping in, for he was a man who by his manners

had been able to secure their obedience in spite of his poverty. And he preached to the people of his parish on

that Sunday, as he had always preached; eagerly, clearly, and with an eloquence fitted for the hearts of such

an audience. No one would have guessed from his tones and gestures and appearance on that occasion, that

there was aught wrong with himunless there had been some observer keen enough to perceive that the

greater care which he used, and the special eagerness of his words, denoted a special frame of mind.

After that, after those church services were over, he sank again and never roused himself till the dreaded day

Opinion at Silverbridge, at Barchester, and throughout the county, was very much divided as to the guilt or

innocence of Mr Crawley. Up to the time of Mrs Crawley's visit to Silverbridge, the affair had not been much

discussed. To give Mr Soames his due he had be no means been anxious to press the matter against the

clergyman; but he had been forced to go on with it. While the first cheque was missing, Lord Lufton had sent

him a second cheque for the money, and the loss had thus fallen upon his lordship. The cheque had of course

been traced, and inquiry had of course been made as to Mr Crawley's possession of it. When that gentleman

declared that he had received it from Mr Soames, Mr Soames had been forced to contradict and to resent such

assertion. When Mr Crawley had afterwards said that the money had come to him from the dean, and when

the dean had shown that this was also untrue, Mr Soames, confident as he was that he had dropped the

pocketbook at Mr Crawley's house, could not but continue the investigation. He had done so with as much

silence as the nature of the work admitted. But by the day of the magistrate's meeting at Silverbridge, the

subject had become common through the county, and men's minds were much divided.

All Hogglestock believed their parson to be innocent; but then all Hogglestock believed him to be mad. At

Silverbridge the tradesmen with whom he had dealt, and to whom he had owed, and still owed, money, all

declared him to be innocent. They knew something of the man personally, and could not believe him to be a

thief. All the ladies at Silverbridge, too, were sure of his innocence. It was to them impossible that such a

man should have stolen twenty pounds. 'My dear,' said the eldest Miss Prettyman to poor Grace Crawley, 'in

England, where the laws are good, no gentleman is ever made out to be guilty when he is innocent; and your

papa, of course, is innocent. Therefore you should not trouble yourself.' 'It will break papa's heart,' Grace had

said, and she did trouble herself. But the gentlemen in Silverbridge were made of sterner stuff, and believed

the man to be guilty, clergyman and gentleman though he was. Mr Walker, who among the lights in

Silverbridge was the leading light, would not speak a word upon the subject to anybody; and then everybody,

who was anybody, knew that Mr Walker was convinced of the man's guilt. Had Mr Walker believed him to

be innocent, his tongue would have been ready enough. John Walker, who was in the habit of laughing at his

father's good nature, had no doubt upon the subject. Mr Winthrop, Mr Walker's partner, shook his head.

People did not think much of Mr Winthrop, excepting certain unmarried ladies; for Mr Winthrop was a

bachelor, and had plenty of money. People did not think much of Mr Winthrop; but still on this subject he

might know something, and when he shook his head he manifestly intended to indicate guilt. And Dr

Tempest, the rector of Silverbridge, did not hesitate to declare his belief in the guilt of the incumbent of

Hogglestock. No man reverences a clergyman, as a clergyman, so slightly as a brother clergyman. To Dr

Tempest it appeared to be neither very strange nor very terrible that Mr Crawley should have stolen twenty

pounds. 'What is a man to do,' he said, 'when he sees his children starving? He should not have married on

such a preferment as that.' Mr Crawley had married, however, long before he got the living at Hogglestock.

There were two Lady Luftonsmotherinlaw and daughterinlawwho at this time were living together

at Framley Hall, Lord Lufton's seat in the county of Barset, and there were both thoroughly convinced of Mr

Crawley's innocence. The elder lady had lived much among clergymen, and could hardly, I think, by any

means have been brought to believe in the guilt of any man who had taken upon himself the orders of the

Church of England. She had also known Mr Crawley personally for some years, and was one of those who

could not admit to herself that anyone was vile who had been near to herself. She believed intensely in the

wickedness of the outside world, of the world which was far away from herself, and of which she never saw

anything; but they who were near to her, and who had even become dear to her, or who even had been

respected by her, were made, as it were, saints in her imagination. They were brought into the inner circle,

and could hardly be expelled. She was an old woman who thought all evil of those she did not know, and all

good of those whom she did know; and as she did know Mr Crawley, she was quite sure that he had not

stolen Mr Soames's twenty pounds. She did know Mr Soames also; and thus there was a mystery for the

unravelling of which she was very anxious. And the young Lady Lufton was equally sure, and perhaps with

She had, in truth, known more of Mr Crawley personally, than anyone in the county, unless it was the dean.

The younger Lady Lufton, the present Lord Lufton's wife, had sojourned at one time in Mr Crawley's house,

amidst the Crawley poverty, living as they lived, and nursing Mrs Crawley through an illness which had

wellnigh been fatal to her; and the younger Lady Lufton believed in Mr Crawleyas Mr Crawley believed in

'Quite impossible, my lady.' The dowager was always called 'my lady', both by her daughter and her son's

wife, except when in the presence of their children, when she was addressed as 'grandmamma'. 'Think how

well I knew him. It's no use talking of evidence. No evidence would make me believe it.'

'Nor me; and I think it a great shame that such a report should be spread about.'

'I suppose Mr Soames could not help himself?' said the younger lady, who was not herself very fond of Mr

'Ludovic says that he has only done what he was obliged to do.' The Ludovic spoken of was Lord Lufton.

This took place in the morning, but in the evening the affair was again discussed at Framley Hall. Indeed, for

some days, there was hardly any other subject held to be worthy of discussion in the county. Mr Robarts, the

clergyman of the parish and the brother of the younger Lady Lufton, was dining at the hall with his wife, and

the three ladies had together expressed their perfect conviction of the falseness of the accusation. But when

Lord Lufton and Mr Robarts were together after the ladies had left them, there was much less certainty of this

expressed. 'By Jove,' said Lord Lufton,' 'I don't know what to think of it. I wish with all my heart that Soames

'That was impossible. When the banker sent to Soames, he was obliged to take the matter up.'

'Of course he was. But I'm sorry that it was so. For the life of me, I can't conceive how the cheque got into

'I imagine it had been lying in the house, and that Crawley had come to think that it was his own.'

'But, my dear Mark,' said Lord Lufton, 'excuse me if I say that that's nonsense. What do we do when a poor

man has come to think that another man's property is his own? We send him to prison for making the

'I do,' said Lord Lufton. 'I don't see how the magistrates can save themselves from committing him. It is one

of those cases in which everyone concerned would wish to drop it if it were only possible. But it is not

possible. On the evidence, as one sees it at present, one is bound to say that it is a case for the jury.'

'He always was, as far as I could learn,' said the lord. 'I never knew him myself. You do, I think?'

'Oh yes, I know him.' and the vicar of Framley became silent and thoughtful as the memory of a certain

interview between himself and Mr Crawley came back into his mind. At that time the waters had nearly

closed over his head and Mr Crawley had given him some assistance. When the gentlemen had again found

the ladies, they kept their own doubts to themselves; for at Framley Hall, as at present tenanted, female voices

At Barchester, the cathedral city of the county in which the Crawleys lived, opinion was violently against Mr

Crawley. In the city Mrs Proudie, the wife of the bishop, was the leader of opinion in general, and she was

very strong in her belief of the man's guilt. She had known much of clergymen all her life, as it behoved a

bishop's wife to do, and she had none of that mingled weakness and ignorance which taught so many ladies in

Barchester to suppose that an ordained clergyman could not become a thief. She hated old Lady Lufton with

all her heart, and old Lady Lufton hated her as warmly. Mrs Proudie would say frequently that Lady Lufton

was a conceited old idiot, and Lady Lufton would declare as frequently that Mrs Proudie was a vulgar virago.

It was known at the palace in Barchester that kindness had been shown to the Crawleys by the family at

Framley Hall, and this alone would have been sufficient to make Mrs Proudie believe that Mr Crawley could

be guilty of any crime. And as Mrs Proudie believed, so did the bishop believe. 'It is a terrible disgrace to the

diocese,' said the bishop, shaking his head, and patting his apron as he sat by his study fire.

'You must get rid of him; that's all. You must be firm whether he be acquitted or convicted.'

'Yes, you can, if you are firm. And you must be firm. Is it not true that he has been disgracefully involved in

debt ever since he has been there; that you have been pestered by letters from unfortunate tradesmen who

'And is that kind of thing to go on? He cannot come to the palace as all clergymen should do, because he has

got no clothes to come in. I saw him once about the lanes, and I never set my eyes on such an object in all my

life! I would not believe that the man was a clergyman till John told me. He is a disgrace to the diocese, and

he must be got rid of. I feel sure of his guilt, and I hope he will be convicted. One is bound to hope that a

guilty man should be convicted. But if he escapes conviction, you must sequestrate the living because of the

debts. The income is enough to get an excellent curate. It would just do for Thumble.' To all of which the

bishop made no reply, but simply nodded his head and patted his apron. He knew that he could not do exactly

what his wife required of him; but if it should so turn out that poor Crawley was found to be guilty, then the

'It should be an example to us, that we should look to our own steps, my dear,' said the bishop.

'That's all very well,' said Mrs Proudie, 'but it has become your duty, and mine too, to look upon the steps of

'Of course, my dear, of course.' That was the tone in which the question of Mr Crawley's alleged guilt was

We have already heard what was said on the subject at the house of Archdeacon Grantly. As the days passed

by, and as other tidings came in, confirmatory of those which had before reached him, the archdeacon felt

himself unable not to believe in the man's guilt. And the fear which he entertained as to his son's intended

marriage with Grace Crawley, tended to increase the strength of that belief. Dr Grantly had been a very

successful man in the world, and on all ordinary occasions had been able to show that bold front with which

success endows a man. But he still had his moments of weakness, and feared greatly lest anything of

misfortune should touch him and mar the comely roundness of his prosperity. He was very wealthy. The wife

of his bosom had been to him all that a wife should be. His reputation in the clerical world stood very high.

His two sons had hitherto done well in the world, not only as regarded their happiness, but as to marriage

also, and as to social standing. But how great would be the fall if his son should at last marry the daughter of

a convicted thief! How would the Proudies rejoice over himthe Proudies who had been crushed to the

ground by the success of the Hartletop alliance; and how would the lowchurch curates, who swarmed in

Barsetshire, gather together and scream in delight over his dismay! 'But why should we say that he is guilty?'

'It hardly matters as far as we are concerned, whether they find him guilty or not,' said the archdeacon; 'if

But perhaps to no one except the Crawleys themselves had the matter caused so much terrible anxiety as to

the archdeacon's son. He had told his father that he had made an offer of marriage to Grace Crawley, and he

had told the truth. But there are perhaps few men who make such offers in direct terms without having

already said and done that which makes such offers simply necessary as the final closing of an accepted

bargain. It was so at any rate between Major Grantly and Miss Crawley, and Major Grantly acknowledged to

himself that it was so. He acknowledged also to himself that as regarded Grace herself he had no wish to go

back from his implied intentions. Nothing that either his father or mother might say would shake him in that.

But could it be his duty to bind himself to the family of a convicted thief? Could it be right that he should

disgrace his father and his mother and his sister and his one child by such a connexion? He had a man's heart,

and the poverty of the Crawleys caused him no solicitude. But he shrank from the contamination of a prison.

It has already been said that Grace Crawley was at this time living with the two Miss Prettymans, who kept a

girls' school at Silverbridge. Two more benignant ladies than the Miss Prettymans never presided over such

an establishment. The younger was fat, and fresh, and fair, and seemed to be always running over with the

milk of human kindness. The other was very thin and very small, and somewhat afflicted with bad

healthwas weak, too, in the eyes, and subject to racking headaches, so that it was considered generally that

she was unable to take much active part in the education of the pupils. But it was considered as generally that

she did all the thinking, that she knew more than any other woman in Barsetshire, and that all the Prettyman

schemes for education emanated from her mind. It was said, too, by those who knew them best, that her

sister's goodnature was as nothing to hers; that she was the most charitable, the most loving, and the most

conscientious of schoolmistresses. This was Miss Annabella Prettyman, the elder; and perhaps it may be

inferred that some portion of her great character for virtue may have been due to the fact that nobody ever

saw her out of her own house. She could not even go to church, because the open air brought on neuralgia.

She was therefore perhaps taken to be magnificent, partly because she was unknown. Miss Anne Prettyman,

the younger, went about frequently to teapartieswould go, indeed, to any party to which she might be

invited; and was known to have a pleasant taste for poundcake and sweetmeats. Being seen so much in the

outer world, she became common, and her character did not stand so high as did that of her sister. Some

people were illnatured enough to say that she wanted to marry Mr Winthrop; but of what maiden lady that

goes out in the world are not such stories told? And all such stories in Silverbridge were told with special

Miss Crawley, at present, lived with the Miss Prettymans, and assisted them in the school. This arrangement

had been going on for the last twelve months, since the time in which Grace would have left the school in the

natural course of things. There had been no bargain made, and no intention that Grace should stay. She had

been invited to fill the place of an absent superintendent, first, for one month, then for another, and then for

two more months; and when the assistant came back, the Miss Prettymans thought there were reasons why

Grace should be asked to remain a little longer. But they took great care to let the fashionable world of

Silverbridge know that Grace Crawley was a visitor with them, and not a teacher. 'We pay her no salary, or

anything of that kind,' said Miss Ann Prettyman; a statement, however, which was by no means true, for

during those last four months the regular stipend had been paid to her; and twice since then, Miss Annabella

Prettyman, who managed all the money matters, had called Grace into her little room, and had made a little

speech, and had put a little bit of paper into her hand. 'I know I ought not to take it,' Grace had said to her

friend Anne. 'If I was not here, there would be no one in my place.' 'Nonsense, my dear,' Anne Prettyman had

said; 'it is the greatest comfort to us in the world. And you should make yourself nice, you know, for his sake.

All the gentlemen like it.' Then Grace had been very angry, and had sworn that she would give the money

back again. Nevertheless, I think she did make herself as nice as she knew how to do. And from all this it

may be seen that the Miss Prettymans had hitherto quite approved of Major Grantly's attentions.

But when this terrible affair came on about the cheque which had been lost and found and traced to Mr

Crawley's hands, Miss Anne Prettyman said nothing further to Grace Crawley about Major Grantly. It was

not that she thought that Mr Crawley was guilty, but she knew enough of the world to be aware that suspicion

of such guilt might compel such a man as Major Grantly to change his mind. 'If he had only popped,' Anne

said to her sister,' it would have been all right. He would never have gone back from his word.' 'My dear,' said

Annabella, 'I wish you would not talk about popping. It is a terrible word.' 'I shouldn't, to anyone except you,'

There had come to Silverbridge some few months since, on a visit to Mrs Walker, a young lady from

Allington, in the neighbouring county, between whom and Grace Crawley there had grown up from

circumstances a warm friendship. Grace had a cousin in Londona clerk high up and welltodo in a public

office, a nephew of her mother'sand this cousin was, and for years had been, violently smitten in love for

this young lady. But the young lady's tale had been sad, and though she acknowledged feelings of the most

affectionate friendship for the cousin, she could not bring herself to acknowledge more. Grace Crawley had

met the young lady at Silverbridge, and words had been spoken about the cousin; and though the young lady

from Allington was some years older than Grace, there had grown up to be a friendship, and, as is not

uncommon between young ladies, there had been an agreement that they would correspond. The name of the

At the present moment Miss Dale was at home with her mother at Allington, and Grace Crawley in her

terrible sorrow wrote to her friend, pouring out her whole heart. As Grace's letter and Miss Dale's answer will

'DEAREST LILY, 'I hardly know how to tell you what has happened, it is so very terrible. But perhaps you

will have heard it already, as everybody is talking about it here. It has got into the newspapers, and therefore

it cannot be kept secret. Not that I should keep anything from you; only this is so very dreadful that I hardly

know how to write it. Somebody saysa Mr Soames, I believe it isthat papa has taken some money that

does not belong to him, and he is to be brought before the magistrates and tried. Of course papa has done

nothing wrong. I do think he would be the last man in the world to take a penny that did not belong to him.

You know how poor he is; what a life he has had! But I think he would almost sooner see mamma

starving;I am sure he would rather be starved himself, then even borrow a shilling which he could not pay.

(she had tried to write the word 'steal' but she could not bring her pen to form the letters)

'is monstrous. But, somehow, the circumstances have been made to look bad against him, and they say that he

must come over here to the magistrates. I often think that of all men in the world papa is the most

unfortunate. Everything seems to go against him, and yet he is so good! Poor mamma has been over here, and

she is distracted. I never saw her so wretched before. She has been to your friend Mr Walker, and came to me

afterwards for a minute. Mr Walker has got something to do with it, though mamma says she thinks he is

quite friendly to papa. I wonder whether you could find out, through Mr Walker, what he thinks about it. Of

course, mamma knows that papa has done nothing wrong; but she says that the whole thing is so mysterious,

and that she does not know how to account for the money. Papa, you know, is not like other people. He

forgets things; and is always thinking, thinking, thinking of his great misfortunes. Poor papa! My heart bleeds

so when I remember all his sorrows, that I hate myself for thinking about myself.

'When mamma left meand it was then I first knew that papa would really have to be triedI went to Miss

Annabella, and told her that I would go home. She asked me why, and I said I would not disgrace her house

by staying in it. She got up and took me in her arms, and there came a tear out of both her dear old eyes, and

she said that if anything evil came to papawhich she would not believe, as she knew him to be a good

manthere should be a home in her house not only for me, but for mamma and Jane. Isn't she a wonderful

woman? When I think of her, I sometimes think that she must be an angel already. Then she became very

seriousfor just before, through her tears she had tried to smileand she told me to remember that all

people could not be like her, who had nobody to look to but herself and her sister; and that at present I must

task myself not to think of that which I had been thinking of before. She did not mention anybody's name, but

of course I understood very well what she meant; and I suppose she is right. I said nothing in answer to her,

for I could not speak. She was holding my hand, and I took hers up and kissed it, to show her, if I could, that I

knew that she was right; but I could not have spoken about it for all the world. It was not ten days since that

she herself, with all her prudence, told me that she thought I ought to make up my mind what answer I would

give him. And then I did not say anything; but of course she knew. And after that Miss Anne spoke quite

freely about it, so that I had to beg her to be silent even before the girls. You know how imprudent she is. But

it is all over now. Of course Miss Annabella is right. He has got a great many people to think of; his father

and mother, and his darling little Edith, whom he brought here twice, and left her with us once for two days,

so that she got to know me quite well; and I took such a love for her, that I could not bear to part with her.

But I think sometimes that all our family are born to be unfortunate, and then I tell myself that I will never

'Pray write to me soon. I feel as though nothing on earth could comfort me, and yet I shall like to have your

letter. Dear, dear Lily, I am not even yet so wretched but what I shall rejoice to be told good news of you. If it

only could be as John wishes it! And why should it not? It seems to me that nobody has a right or a reason to

by unhappy except us. Goodbye, dearest Lily. 'Your affectionate friend, 'GRACE CRAWLEY'

'P.S.I think I have made up my mind that I will go back to Hogglestock at once if the magistrates decide

against papa. I think I should be doing the school harm if I were to stay here.'

The answer to this letter did not reach Miss Crawley till after the magistrate's hearing on the Thursday, but it

will be better for our story that it should be given her than postponed until the result of that meeting shall

'I had heard about the affair a day or two before I got your note. Our clergyman, Mr Boyce, told us of it. Of

course we all know that the charge must be altogether unfounded, and mamma says that the truth will be sure

to show itself at last. But that conviction does not cure the evil, and I can well understand that your father

'As for Major Grantly, if he be such a man as I took him to be from the little I saw of him, all this would

make no difference to him. I am sure that it ought to make none. Whether it should not make a difference in

you is another question. I think it should; and I think your answer to him should be that you could not even

consider any such proposition while your father was in so great trouble. I am so much older than you, and

seem to have so much experience, that I do not scruple, as you will see, to come down upon you with all the

'About that other subject I had rather say nothing. I have known your cousin all my life almost; and I regard

no one more kindly than I do him. When I think of my friends, he is always the one of the dearest. But when

one thinks of going beyond friendship, even if one tries to do so, there are so many barriers!

'Mamma bids me say that she would be delighted to have you here whenever it might suit you to come; and I

add to this message my entreaty that you will come at once. You say that you think you ought to leave Miss

Prettyman's for a while. I can well understand your feeling; but as your sister is with your mother, surely you

had better come to usI mean quite at once. I will not scruple to tell you what mamma says, because I know

your good sense. She says that as the interest of the school may possibly be concerned, and as you have no

regular engagement, she thinks you ought to leave Silverbridge; but she says that it will be better that you

come to us than that you should go home. If you went home, people might say that had left in some sort of

disgrace. Come to us, and when all this is put right, then you go back to Silverbridge; and then, if a certain

person speaks again, you can make a different answer. Mamma quite understands that you are to come; so

This letter, the reader will understand, did not reach Grace Crawley till after the allimportant Thursday; but

before that day had come round, Grace had told Miss Prettymanhad told both the Miss Prettymansthat

she was resolved to leave them. She had done this without consulting her mother, driven to it by various

motives. She knew her father's conduct was being discussed by the girls at school, and that things were said

of him which it could not but be for the disadvantage of Miss Prettyman that anyone should say of a teacher

in the establishment. She felt, too, that she could not hold up her head in Silverbridge in these days, as it

would become her to do if she retained her position. She did struggle gallantly, and succeeded much more

nearly than she was herself aware. She was all but able to carry herself as though no terrible accusation was

being made against her father. Of the struggle, however, she was not herself the less conscious, and she told

herself that on that account also she must go. And then she must go because of Major Grantly. Whether he

was minded to come and speak to her that one other needed word, or whether he was not so minded, it would

be better that she should be away from Silverbridge. If he spoke it she could only answer him by the negative;

she should leave herself the power of thinking that his silence had been caused by her absence, and not by his

She asked, therefore, for an interview with Miss Prettyman, and was shown into the elder sister's room, at

eleven o'clock on the Tuesday morning. The elder Miss Prettyman never came into the school herself till

twelve, but was in the habit of having interviews with the young ladieswhich were sometimes very awful

in their naturefor the two previous hours. During these interviews an immense amount of business was

done, and the fortunes in life of some girls were said to have been made or marred; as when, for instance,

Miss Crimpton had been advised to stay at home with her uncle in England, instead of going out with her

sisters to India, both of which sisters were married within three months of their landing in Bombay. The way

in which she gave her counsel on such occasions was very efficacious. No one knew better than Miss

Prettyman that a cock can crow most effectively in his own farmyard, and therefore all crowing intended to

'Well, my dear, what is it?' she said to Grace. 'Sit in the armchair, my dear, and we can then talk

comfortably.' The teachers, when they were closeted with Miss Prettyman, were always asked to sit in the

armchair, whereas a small, straightbacked, uneasy chair was kept for the use of the young ladies. And

there was, too, a stool of repentance, out against the wall, very uncomfortable indeed for young ladies who

Grace seated herself, and then began her speech very quickly. 'Miss Prettyman,' she said, 'I have made up my

'And why should you go home, Grace? Did I not tell you that you should have a home here?' Miss Prettyman

had weak eyes, and was very small, and had never possessed any claim to be called goodlooking. And she

assumed nothing of the majestical awe from any adornment or studied amplification of the outward woman

by means of impressive trappings. The possessor of an unobservant eye might have called her a

meanlooking, little old woman. And certainly there would have been nothing awful in her to anyone who

came across her otherwise than as a lady having authority in her own school. But within her own precincts,

she did know how to surround herself with a dignity which all felt who approached her there. Grace Crawley,

as she heard the simple question which Miss Prettyman had asked, unconsciously acknowledged the strength

of the woman's manner. She already stood rebuked for having proposed a plan so ungracious, so unnecessary,

'If there is no other reason, I cannot think that that can be held to be a reason now. Of course your mother

would like to have you always; unless you should be marriedbut then there are reasons why this should not

'I do not thinkthat is, if I know all that there is to be knownI do not think, I say, that there can be any

Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gathering her courage, and collecting her words; and after that she spoke.

'But I want you to hear me for one moment first. I beg your pardon, Miss Prettyman; I do indeed, but I want

to say this before you go on. I must go home, and I know I ought. We are all disgraced, and I won't stop here

to disgrace the school. I know papa has done nothing wrong; but nevertheless we are disgraced. The police

are to bring him in here on Thursday, and everybody in Silverbridge will know it. It cannot be right that I

should be here teaching in the school, while it is all going on;and I won't. And, Miss Prettyman, I couldn't

do it, indeed I couldn't. I can't bring myself to think of anything I am doing. Indeed I can't; and then, Miss

Prettyman, there are other reasons.' By the time that she had proceeded thus far, Grace Crawley's words were

'But I know,' said Miss Prettyman. 'I know them all. I know all your reasons, and I tell you that in my opinion

you ought to remain where you are, and not go away. The very reasons which to you are reasons for your

'I can't remain. I am determined to go. I don't mind you and Miss Anne, but I can't bear to have the girls

Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking of what words of wisdom would be most appropriate in the

present conjuncture. But words of wisdom did not seem to come easily to her, having for the moment been

banished by a tenderness of heart. 'Come here, my love,' she said at last. 'Come here, Grace.' Slowly Grace

got up from her seat and came round, and stood by Miss Prettyman's elbow. Miss Prettyman pushed her chair

a little back, and pushed herself a little forward, and stretching out one hand, placed her arm round Grace's

waist, and with the other took hold of Grace's hand, and thus drew her down and kissed the girl's forehead

and lips. And then Grace found herself kneeling at her friend's feet. 'Grace,' she said, 'do you not know that I

love you? Do you not know that I love you dearly?' In answer to this Grace kissed the withered hand she held

in hers, while the warm tears trickled upon Miss Prettyman's knuckles. 'I love you as though you were my

own,' exclaimed the schoolmistress; 'and will you not trust me, that I know what is best for you?'

'Of course you shall, if you think it right at last; but let us talk of it. No one in the house, you know, has the

slightest suspicion that your father has done anything that is in the least dishonourable.'

'No, nor has Anne.' Miss Prettyman said this as though no one in that house beyond herself and her sister had

'They don't say anything, Miss Prettyman, but they look. Indeed, I'd better go home. Indeed I had!'

'Do not you think your mother has cares enough upon her, and burden enough, without another mouth to

'And for the work, whilst you are not quite well you shall not be troubled with teaching. I have some old

papers that want copying and settlings, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment. Anne

knows that I've long wanted to have it done, and I'll tell her that you have kindly promised to do it for me.'

'No; no; no,' said Grace; 'I must go home.' She was still kneeling at Miss Prettyman's knee, and still holding

Miss Prettyman's hand. And then, at that moment, there came a tap on the door, gentle but yet not humble, a

tap which acknowledged, on the part of the tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting

there, but which still claimed admittance almost as a right. The tap was well known by both of them to be the

tap of Miss Anne. Grace immediately jumped up, and Miss Prettyman settled herself in her chair with a

motion which almost seemed to indicate some feeling of shame as to her late position.

'I suppose I may come in?' said Miss Anne, opening the door and inserting her head.

'Yes, you may come inif you have anything to say,' said Miss Prettyman, with an air which seemed to be

intended to assert her supremacy. But, in truth, she was simply collecting the wisdom and dignity which had

'Poor dear, I'm sure I'm sorry as though she were my own sister,' said Anne. 'But, Annabella, I want to speak

Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going, Miss Anne, upon whose brow a heavy burden of thought

was lying, stopped her suddenly. 'Grace, my dear,' she said, 'go upstairs to your room, will you?not across

Miss Anne paused for a moment, and then answeredunwillingly, as though driven to make a reply which

'Go to your room, dear,' said Miss Prettyman. And Grace went to her room, never turning an eye down

Major Grantly, when threatened by his father with pecuniary punishment, should he demean himself by such

a marriage as that he had proposed to himself, had declared that he would offer his hand to Miss Crawley on

the next morning. This, however, he had not done. He had not done it, partly because he did not quite believe

his father's threat, and partly because he felt that that threat was almost justifiedfor the present

Henry Grantly acknowledged, as he drove himself home on the morning after his dinner at the rectory, that in

this matter of his marriage he did owe much to his family. Should he marry at all, he owed it to them to marry

a lady. And Grace Crawleyso he told himselfwas a lady. And he owed it to them to bring among them

as his wife a woman who should not disgrace him or them by her education, manners, or even by her personal

appearance. In all these respects Grace Crawley was, in his judgment, quite as good as they had a right to

expect her to be, and in some respects a great deal superior to that type of womanhood with which they had

been most generally conversant. 'If everybody had her due, my sister isn't fit to hold a candle to her,' he said

to himself. It must be acknowledged, therefore, that he was really in love with Grace Crawley; and he

declared to himself over and over again, that his family had no right to demand that he should marry a woman

with money. The archdeacon's son by no means despised money. How could he, having come forth as a bird

fledged from such a nest as the rectory at Plumstead Episcopi? Before he had been brought by his better

nature and true judgment to see that Grace Crawley was the greater woman of the two, he had nearly

submitted himself to the twenty thousand pounds of Miss Emily Dunstableto that, and her goodhumour

and rosy freshness combined. But he regarded himself as the welltodo son of a very rich father. His only

child was amply provided for; and he felt that, as regarded money, he had a right to do as he pleased. He felt

But he had no right to make a marriage by which his family would be disgraced. Whether he was right or

wrong in supposing that he would disgrace his family were he to marry the daughter of a convicted thief, it is

hardly necessary to discuss here. He told himself that it would be sotelling himself also that, by the stern

laws of the world, the son and the daughter must pay for the offence of the father and mother. Even among

the poor, who would willingly marry the child of a man who had been hanged? But he carried the argument

beyond this, thinking much of the matter, and endeavouring to think of it not only justly but generously. If the

accusation against Crawley were falseif the man were being injured by an unjust chargeeven if he,

Grantly, could make himself think that the girl's father had not stolen the money, then he would dare

everything and go on. I do not know that his argument was good, or that his mind was logical on the matter.

He ought to have felt that his own judgment as to the man's guilt was less likely to be correct than that of

those whose duty it was and would be to form and to express a judgment on the matter; and as to Grace

herself, she was equally innocent whether her father were guilty or not guilty. If he were to be debarred from

asking for her hand by his feelings for her father and mother, he should hardly have trusted to his own skill in

ascertaining the real truth as to the alleged theft. But he was not logical, and thus, meaning to be generous, he

He found that among those in Silverbridge whom he presumed to be best informed on such matters, there was

a growing opinion that Mr Crawley had stolen the money. He was intimate with all the Walkers, and was able

to find out that Mrs Walker knew that her husband believed in the clergyman's guilt. He was by no means

alone in his willingness to accept Mr Walker's opinion as the true opinion. Silverbridge, generally, was

endeavouring to dress itself in Mr Walker's glass, and to believe as Mr Walker believed. The ladies of

Silverbridge, including the Miss Prettymans, were aware that Mr Walker had been very kind both to Mr and

Mrs Crawley, and argued from this that Mr Walker must think the man innocent. But Henry Grantly, who did

not dare to ask a direct question of the solicitor, went cunningly to work, and closeted himself with Mrs

Walkerwith Mrs Walker, who knew well of the good fortune that was hovering over Grace's head and was

so nearly settling itself on her shoulders. She would have given a finger to be able to whitewash Mr Crawley

in the major's estimation. Nor must it be supposed that she told the major in plain words that her husband had

convinced himself of the man's guilt. In plain words no question was asked between them, and in plain words

no opinion was expressed. But there was the look of sorrow in the woman's eye, there was the absence of

reference to her husband's assurance that the man was innocent, there was the air of settled grief which told of

her own conviction; and the major left her, convinced that Mrs Walker believed Mr Crawley to be guilty.

Then he went to Barchester; not openmouthed with inquiry, but rather with open ears, and it seemed to him

that all men in Barchester were of one mind. There was a countyclub in Barchester, and at this countyclub

nine men out of ten were talking about Mr Crawley. It was by no means necessary that a man should ask

questions on the subject. Opinion was expressed so freely that no such asking was required; and opinion in

Barchesterat any rate in the countyclubseemed now to be all of one mind. There had been every

disposition at first to believe Mr Crawley to be innocent. He had been believed to be innocent even after he

had said wrongly that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr Soames; but he had since stated that he had

received it from Dean Arabin, and that statement was also shown to be false. A man who has a cheque

changed on his own behalf is bound at least to show where he got the cheque. Mr Crawley had not only failed

to do this, but had given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as he drove home to Silverbridge on the Sunday

afternoon, summed up all the evidence in his own mind, and brought in a verdict of Guilty against the father

On the following morning he walked into Silverbridge and called at Miss Prettyman's house. As he went

along his heart was warmer towards Grace than it had ever been before. He had told himself that he was now

bound to abstain, for his father's sake, from doing that which he had told his father he certainly would do. But

he knew also, that he had said that which, though it did not bind him to Miss Crawley, gave her a right to

expect that he would so bind himself. And Miss Prettyman could not but be aware of what his intention had

been, and could not but expect that he should not be explicit. Had he been a wise man altogether, he would

probably have abstained from saying anything at the present momenta wise man, that is, in the ways and

feelings of the world in such matters. But, as there are men who will allow themselves all imaginable latitude

in their treatment of women, believing that the world will condone any amount of fault of that nature, so there

are other men, and a class of men which on the whole is the more numerous of the two, who are tremblingly

alive to the danger of censure on this headand to the danger of censure not only from others but from

themselves also. Major Grantly had done that which made him think it imperative upon him to do something

Therefore he started off on the Monday morning after breakfast and walked into Silverbridge, and as he

walked he built various castles in the air. Why should no not marry Graceif she would have himand take

her away beyond the reach of her father's calamity? Why should he not throw over his own people altogether,

money, position, society, and all, and give himself up to love? Were he to do so, men might say that he was

foolish, but no one could hint that he was dishonourable. His spirit was high enough to teach him to think that

such conduct on his part would have in it something of magnificence; but, yet, such was not his purpose. In

going to Miss Prettyman it was his intention to apologise for not doing this magnificent thing. His mind was

It so happened that he encountered the younger Miss Prettyman in the hall. It would not at all have suited him

to reveal to her the purport of his visit, or ask her to assist his suit or receive his apologies. Miss Anne

Prettyman was too common a personage in the Silverbridge world to be fit for such employment. Miss Anne

Prettyman was, indeed, herself submissive to him, and treated him with the courtesy which is due to a

superior being. He therefore simply asked her whether he could be allowed to see her sister.

'Surely, Major Grantly;that is, I think so. It is a little early, but I think she can receive you.'

'Oh, on business. I am sure she will see you on business; she will only be too proud. If you will be kind

enough to step in here for two minutes.' Then Miss Anne, having deposited the major in the little parlour, ran

upstairs with her message to her sister. 'Of course it's about Grace Crawley' she said to herself as she went. 'It

can't be about anything else. I wonder what he's going to say. If he's going to pop, and the father in all this

trouble, he's the finest fellow that ever trod.' Such were her thoughts as she tapped at the door and announced

'It's Major Grantly,' whispered Anne, as soon as Grace had shut the door behind her.

'So I suppose by your telling her not to go into the hall. What has he come to say?'

'How on earth can I tell you that, Annabella? But I suppose he can have only one thing to say after all that has

'Or he would have gone to them over at Hogglestock,' said Miss Prettyman. 'But of course he must come up

'I'll tell him. We need not make more fuss than necessary, with the servants, you know. I suppose I'd better

There was a tone of supplication in the younger sister's voice as she made the last suggestion, which ought to

have melted the heart of the elder; but it was unavailing. 'As he has asked to see me, I think you had better

not,' said Annabella. Miss Anne Prettyman bore her cross meekly, offered no argument on the subject, and

returning to the little parlour where she had left the major, brought him upstairs, and ushered him into her

Major Grantly was as intimately acquainted with Miss Anne Prettyman as a man under thirty may well be

with a lady nearer fifty than forty, who is not specially connected with him by any family tie; but of Miss

Prettyman he knew personally very much less. Miss Prettyman, as has before been said, did not go out, and

was therefore not common to the eyes of the Silverbridgians. She did occasionally see her friends in her own

house, and Grace Crawley's lover, as the major had come to be called, had been there on more than one

occasion; but of real personal intimacy between them there had hitherto existed none. He might have spoken,

perhaps a dozen words to her in his life. He had now more than a dozen to speak to her, but he hardly knew

She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken his hand and asked him to sit down. 'My sister tells me that

'I do, Miss Prettyman. I want to speak to you about a matter that troubles me very muchvery much indeed.'

'Thank you, yes. I know that you are very good, or I should not have ventured to come and see you. Indeed I

shouldn't trouble you now, of course, if it was only about myself. I know very well what a great friend you

'So do I,' said the major bluntly; 'I love her dearly, too.' Then he paused, as though he thought that Miss

Prettyman ought to take up the speech. But Miss Prettyman seemed to think quite differently, and he was

obliged to go on. 'I don't know whether you have ever heard about it or noticed it, ororor' He felt that

he was very awkward, and he blushed. Major as he was, he blushed as he sat before the woman, trying to tell

his story, but not knowing how to tell it. 'The truth is, Miss Prettyman, I have done all but ask her to be my

'Think so! I feel sure of it. What; a clergyman of the Church of England, a pious, hardworking country

gentleman, whom we have known among us by his good works for years, suddenly turn thief, and pilfer a

few pounds! It is not possible, Major Grantly. And the father of such a daughter, too! It is not possible. It may

do for men of business to think so, lawyers and such like, who are obliged to think in accordance with the

evidence, as they call it; but to my mind the idea is monstrous. I don't know how he got it, and I don't care;

but I'm quite sure he did not steal it. Whoever heard of anybody becoming so base as that all at once?'

The major was startled by her eloquence, and by the indignant tone of voice in which it was expressed. It

seemed to tell him that she would give him no sympathy in that which he had come to say to her, and to

upbraid him already in that he was not prepared to do the magnificent thing of which he had thought when he

had been building his castles in the air. Why should he not do the magnificent thing? Miss Prettyman's

eloquence was so strong that it half convinced him that the Barchester Club and Mr Walker had come to a

'And how does Miss Crawley bear it?' he asked, desirous of postponing for a while any declaration of his own

'Nobody thinks him so in this house, Major Grantly,' said the little woman, very imperiously. 'But Grace is,

naturally enough, very sad;very sad indeed. I do not think I can ask you to see her today.'

'Poor, dear girl! It is a great trial for her. Do you wish me to give her any message, Major Grantly?'

The moment had now come in which he must say that which he had come to say. The little woman waited for

an answer, and as he was there, within her power as it were, he must speak. I fear that what he said will not

be approved by any strongminded person. I fear that our lover will henceforth be considered by such a one

as being a weak, wishywashy man, who had hardly any mind of his own to speak ofthat he was a man of

no account, as the poor people say. 'Miss Prettyman, what message ought I to give her?'

'Nay, Major Grantly, how can I tell you that? How can I put words into your mouth?'

'Oh, as for that, I know what my feelings are. I do love her with all my heart;I do, indeed. A fortnight ago I

was only thinking whether she would accept me, and whether she would mind having Edith to take care of.'

'Is she?' said the major, more distracted than ever. Why should he not do the magnificent thing after all? 'But

'It is a great chargea very great charge. It is for you to think whether you should entrust so great a charge to

'Nor should I have anyas you ask me. We have known Grace well, thoroughly, and are quite sure that she

The major was aware when this was said to him that he had not come to Miss Prettyman for a character of the

girl he loved; and yet he was not angry at receiving it. He was neither angry, nor even indifferent. He

accepted the character most gratefully, though he felt that he was being led away from his purpose. He

consoled himself for this however, by remembering that the path which Miss Prettyman was now leading

him, led to the magnificent, and to those pleasant castles in the air which he had been building as he walked

into Silverbridge. 'I am quite sure that she is all that you say,' he replied. 'Indeed I had made up my mind

'I will ask her, if you please. I have such trust in her judgment that I should leave her altogether to her own

The magnificent thing must be done, and the major made up his mind accordingly. Something of regret came

over his spirit as he thought of a fatherinlaw disgraced and degraded, and of his own father

brokenhearted. But now there was hardly any alternative left to him. And was it not the manly thing for him

to do? He had loved the girl before this trouble had come upon her, and was he not bound to accept the

burden which his love had brought with it? 'I will see her,' he said, 'at once, if you will let me, and ask her to

Then Miss Prettyman paused. Hitherto, she had undoubtedly been playing her fish cautiously, or rather her

young friend's fishperhaps I may say cunningly. She had descended to artifice on behalf of the girl whom

she loved, admired, and pitied. She had seen some way into the man's mind, and had been partly aware of his

purposeof his infirmity of purpose, of his double purpose. She had perceived that a word from her might

help Grace's chance, and had led the man on till he had committed himself, at any rate to her. In doing this

she had been actuated by friendship rather than by abstract principle. But now, when the moment had come in

which she must decide upon some action, she paused. Was it right, for the sake of either of them, that an offer

of marriage should be made at such a moment as this? It might be very well, in regard to some future time,

that the major should have so committed himself. She saw something of the man's spirit, and believed that,

having gone so farhaving so far told his love, he would return to his love hereafter, let the result of the

Crawley trial be what it might. Butbut, this could be no proper time for lovemaking. Though Grace loved

the man, as Miss Prettyman knew well, though Grace loved the child, having allowed herself to long to call it

her own, though such a marriage could be the making of Grace's fortune as those who loved her could hardly

have hoped that it should ever have been made, she would certainly refuse the man, if he were to propose to

her now. She would refuse him, and then the man would be free;free to change his mind if he saw fit.

Considering all these things, craftily in the exercise of her friendship, too cunningly, I fear, to satisfy the

claims of a high morality, she resolved that the major had better not see Miss Crawley at the present moment.

Miss Prettyman paused before she replied, and, when she did speak, Major Grantly had risen from his chair

and was standing with his back to the fire. 'Major Grantly,' she said, 'you shall see if you please, and if she

pleases; but I doubt whether her answer at such a moment as this would be that which you would wish to

'I do not think she would accept you now. She would feelI am sure she would feel, that these hours of her

father's sorrow are not hours in which love should be either offered or accepted. You shall, however, see her

The major allowed himself a moment for thought; and as he thought he sighed. Grace Crawley had become

more beautiful in his eyes than ever, was endowed by these words from Miss Prettyman with new charms and

brighter virtues than he had seen before. Let come what might he would ask her to be his wife on some future

day; if he did not ask her now. For the present, perhaps, he had better be guided by Miss Prettyman. 'Then I

'Well; since you put the question to me so plainly, I must confess that as Grace's friend I should not quite

have let things go on as they have gonethough I am not at all disposed to interfere with any girl whom I

believe to be pure and good as I know her to bebut still I should hardly have been justified in letting things

'You are right with mequite right'; and she got up and gave him her hand. 'You are a fine, noblehearted

gentleman, and I hope that our Grace may live to be your happy wife, and the mother of your darling child,

and the mother of other children. I do not see how a woman could have a happier lot in life.'

'I will tell her at any rate that you have been here, and that you have inquired after her with the greatest

'Can I do anything for heror her father; I mean in the way of money? I don't mind mentioning it to you,

'I will tell her that you are ready to do it, if anything can be done. For myself I feel no doubt that the mystery

will be cleared up at last; and then, if you will come here, we shall be so glad to see you.I shall at least.'

Then the major went, and Miss Prettyman herself actually descended with him into the hall, and bade him

farewell most affectionately before her sister and two of the maids who came out to open the door. Miss

Anne Prettyman, when she saw the great friendship with which the major was dismissed, could not contain

herself, but asked most impudent questions, in a whisper indeed, but in such a whisper that any sharpeared

maidservant could hear and understand them. 'Is it settled,' she asked when her sister had ascended only the

first flight of stairs;'has he popped?' The look with which her elder sister punished and dismayed the

younger, I would not have borne for twenty pounds. She simply looked, and said nothing, but passed on.

When she had regained her room she rang the bell, and desired to ask the servant to ask Miss Crawley to be

good enough to step to her. Poor Miss Anne retired discomforted into the solitude of one of the lower rooms,

and sat for some minutes all alone, recovering from the shock of her sister's anger. 'At any rate, he hasn't

After that Miss Prettyman and Miss Crawley were closeted together for about an hour. What passed between

them need not be repeated here word for word; but it may be understood that Miss Prettyman said no more

than she ought to have said, and that Grace understood all that she ought to have understood.

'No man ever behaved with more considerate friendship, or more like a gentleman,' said Miss Prettyman.

'I am sure he is very good, and I am so glad he did not ask to see me,' said Grace. Then Grace went away, and

Miss Prettyman sat awhile in thought, considering what she had done, not without some stings of conscience.

Major Grantly as he walked home was not altogether satisfied with himself, though he gave himself credit for

some diplomacy which I do not think he deserved. He felt that Miss Prettyman and the world in general,

should the world in general ever hear anything about it, would give him credit for having behaved well; and

that he had obtained this credit without committing himself to the necessity of marrying the daughter of a

thief, should things turn out badly in regard to the father. Butand this but robbed him of all the pleasure

which comes from real successbut he had not treated Grace Crawley with the perfect generosity which

love owes, and he was in some degree ashamed of himself. He felt, however, that he might probably have

Grace, should he choose to ask for her when this trouble should have passed by. 'And I will,' he said to

himself, as he entered the gate of his own paddock, and saw his child in her perambulator before the nurse.

'And I will ask her, sooner or later, let things go as they may.' Then he took the perambulator under his own

charge for halfanhour, to the satisfaction of the nurse, of the child, and of himself.

It had become necessary on the Monday morning that Mrs Crawley should obtain from her husband an

undertaking that he should present himself before the magistrates at Silverbridge on the Thursday. She had

been made to understand that the magistrates were sinning against the strict rule of law in not issuing a

warrant at once for Mr Crawley's apprehension; and they were so sinning at the instance of Mr Walkerat

whose instance they would have committed almost any sin practicable by a board of English magistrates, so

great was their faith in him; and she knew that she was bound to answer her engagement. She had also

another task to performthat, namely, of persuading him to employ an attorney for his defence; and she was

prepared with the name of an attorney, one Mr Mason, also of Silverbridge, who had been recommended to

her by Mr Walker. But when she came to the performance of these two tasks on the Monday morning, she

found that she was unable to accomplish either of them. Mr Crawley first declared that he would have

nothing to do with any attorney. As to that he seemed to have made up his mind beforehand, and she saw at

once that she had no hope of shaking him. But when she found that he was equally obstinate in the other

matter, and that he declared that he would not go before the magistrates unless he were made to do

sounless the policeman came and fetched him, then she almost sank beneath the burden of her troubles,

and for a while was disposed to let things go as they would. How could she strive to bear a load that was so

On the Sunday the poor man had exerted himself to get through his Sunday duties, and he had succeeded. He

had succeeded so well that his wife had thought that things might yet come right with him, that he would

remember, before it was too late, the true history of that unhappy piece of paper, and that he was rising above

On the Sunday evening, when he was tired with his work, she thought it best to say nothing to him about the

magistrates and the business of Thursday. But on Monday morning she commenced her task, feeling that she

owed it to Mr Walker to lose no more time. He was very decided in his manners and made her to understand

that he would employ no lawyer on his own behalf. 'Why should I want a lawyer? I have done nothing

wrong,' he said. Then she tried to make him understand that many who may have done nothing wrong require

a lawyer's aid. 'And who is to pay him?' he asked. To this she replied, unfortunately, that there would be no

need of thinking of that at once. 'And I am to get further into debt!' he said. 'I am to put myself right before

the world by incurring debts which I know I can never pay? When it has been a question of food for the

children I have been weak, but I will not be weak in such a matter as this. I will have no lawyer.' She did not

regard this denial on his part as very material, though she would fain have followed Mr Walker's advice had

she been able; but when, later in the day, he declared that the police should fetch him, then her spirits gave

way. Early in the morning he had seemed to assent to the expedient of going into Silverbridge on the

Thursday, and it was not till after he had worked himself into a rage about the proposed attorney, that he

utterly refused to make the journey. During the whole day, however, his state was such as almost to break his

wife' heart. He would do nothing. He would not go to the school, nor even stir beyond the housedoor. He

would not open a book. He would not eat, nor would he even sit at table or say the accustomed grace when

the scanty midday meal was placed upon the table. 'Nothing is blessed to me,' he said, when his wife pressed

him to say the word for their child's sake. 'Shall I say that I thank God when my heart is thankless? Shall I

serve my child by a lie?' Then for hours he sat in the same position, in the old armchair, hanging over the

fire speechless, sleepless, thinking ever, as she well knew, of the injustice of the world. She hardly dared to

speak to him, so great was the bitterness of his words when she was goaded to reply. At last, late in the

evening, feeling that it would be her duty to send to Mr Walker early on the following morning, she laid her

hand gently on his shoulder and asked him for his promise. 'I may tell Mr Walker that you will be there on

'No,' he said, shouting at her. 'No. I will have no such message sent.' She started back, trembling. Not that she

was accustomed to tremble at his ways, or to show that she feared him in his paroxysms, but that his voice

had been louder than she had before known it. 'I will hold no intercourse with them at Silverbridge in this

'I hear you, Josiah; but I must keep my word to Mr Walker. I promised that I would send to him.'

'Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of this house on Thursday of my own accord. On Thursday I shall

'Will you obey me, or shall I walk into Silverbridge myself and tell the man that I will not come to him.' Then

he arose from his chair and stretched forth his hand to his hat as though he were going forth immediately, on

his way to Silverbridge. The night was now pitch dark, and the rain was falling, and abroad he would

encounter all the severity of the pitiless winter. Still it might have been better that he should have gone. The

exercise and the fresh air, even the wet and the mud, would have served to bring back his mind to reason. But

his wife thought of the misery of the journey, of his scanty clothing, of his worn boots, of the need there was

to preserve the raiment which he wore; and she remembered that he was fastingthat he had eaten nothing

since the morning, and that he was not fit to be alone. She stopped him, therefore, before he could reach the

'But, Josiah, think of the parishof the people who respect you for their sakes let it not be said that you

'It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not murmur. Murmur indeed! Why does not your voice ascend to

heaven with one loud wail against the cruelty of man?' Then he went forth from the room into an empty

chamber on the other side of the passage; and his wife, when she followed him there after a few minutes,

found him on his knees, with his forehead against the floor, and with his hands clutching at the scanty hairs of

his head. Often before had she seen him so, on the same spot, half grovelling, half prostrate in prayer, reviling

in his agony all things around himnay, nearly all things above himand yet striving to reconcile himself

It might be better for him now, if only he could bring himself to some softness of heart. Softly she closed the

door, and placing the candle on the mantleshelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly touched his hand

with hers. He did not stir nor utter a single word, but seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently than

before. Then she kneeling there, aloud, but with a low voice, with her thin hands clasped, uttered a prayer in

which she asked her God to remove from her husband the bitterness of that hour. He listened till she had

finished, and then rose slowly to his feet. 'It is in vain,' said he, 'it is all in vain. It is all in vain.' Then he

returned back to the parlour, and seating himself again in the armchair, remained there without speaking till

past midnight. At last, when she told him that she herself was very cold, and reminded him that for the last

hour there had been no fire, still speechless, he went up with her to their bed.

Early on the following morning she contrived to let him know that she was about to send a neighbour's son

over with a note to Mr Walker, fearing to urge him further to change his mind; but hoping that he might

express his purpose of doing so when he heard that the letter was to be sent; but he took no notice whatever

of her words. At this moment he was reading Greek with his daughter, or rather rebuking her because she

'Oh, papa,' the poor girl said, 'don't scold me now. I am so unhappy because of all of this.'

'And am I not unhappy?' he said, as he closed the book. 'My God, what have I done against thee, that my lines

The letter was sent to Mr Walker. 'He knows himself to be innocent,' said the poor wife, writing what best

excuse she how to make, 'and thinks that he should take no step himself in such a matter. He will not employ

a lawyer, and he says that he should prefer that he be sent for, if the law requires his presence at Silverbridge

on Thursday.' All this she wrote, as though she felt that she ought to employ a high tone in defending her

husband's purpose; but she broke down altogether in a few words of the postscript. 'Indeed, indeed I have

done what I could!' Mr Walker understood it all, both the high tone and the subsequent fall.

On the Thursday morning, at about ten o'clock, a fly stopped at the gate at Hogglestock Parsonage, and out of

it came two men. One was dressed in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from his bearing to be a respectable

man of the middle class of life. He was, however, the superintendent of police for the Silverbridge district.

The other man was a policeman, pure and simple, with the helmetlooking hat which has lately become

common, and all the ordinary halfmilitary and wholly disagreeable outward adjuncts of the profession.

'Wilkins,' said the superintendent, 'likely enough I shall want you, for they tell me the gent is uncommon

strange. But if I don't call you when I come out, just open the door like a servant and mount up on the box

when we're in. And don't speak nor say nothing.' then the senior policeman entered the house.

He found Mrs Crawley sitting in the parlour with her bonnet and shawl on, and Mr Crawley in the armchair,

leaning over the fire. 'I suppose we had better go with you,' said Mrs Crawley directly the door was opened;

'The gentleman had better come with us if he'll be so kind,' said Thompson. 'I've brought a carriage for him.'

'But I may go with him?' said the wife, with frightened voice. 'I may accompany my husband. He is not well,

Thompson thought about it for a moment before he spoke. There was room in the fly for only two, or if for

three, still he knew his place better than to thrust himself inside together with his prisoner and his prisoner's

wife. He had been specially asked by Mr Walker to be very civil. Only one could sit on the box with the

driver, and if the request was conceded the poor policeman must walk back. The walk, however would not

kill the policeman. 'All right, ma'am,' said Thompson;'that is, if the gentleman will just pass his word not to

Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long face, and shook his head as he turned his eyes first

towards the husband and then towards the wife, and shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his lips, blew

out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off some of the mingled sorrow and indignation with

Mrs Crawley rose and came close to him. 'You may take my word for it he will not stir. You may indeed. He

thinks it incumbent on him not to give any undertaking himself, because he feels himself so harshly used.'

'I don't know about harshness,' said Thompson, brindling up. 'A close carriage brought and'

'I did not allude to youor to Mr Walker,' said the poor wife. 'I know you have been most kind. I meant the

harshness of the circumstances. Of course he is innocent, and you must feel for him.'

'That is all I meant. He knows his own innocence, and therefore he is unwilling to give way in anything.'

'Of course he knows hisself, that's certain. But he'd better come in the carriage, if only because of the dirt and

'He will go in the carriage; and I will go with him. There will be room for you there, sir.'

Thompson looked up at the rain, and told himself that it was very cold. Then he remembered Mr Walker's

injunction, and bethought himself that Mrs Crawley, in spite of her poverty, was a lady. He conceived even

unconsciously the idea that something was due to her because of her poverty. 'I'll go with the driver,' said he,

She went up to her husband, hat in hand, and looking round to see that she was not watched put the hat on his

head, and then lifted him as it were from the chair. He did not refuse to be led, and allowed her to throw

round his shoulders the old cloak which was hanging in the passage, and then he passed out, and was the first

to seat himself in the Silverbridge fly. His wife followed him, and did not hear the blandishments with which

Thompson instructed his myrmidon to follow through the mud on foot. Slowly they made their way through

the lanes, and it was nearly twelve when the fly was driven through the yard of the "George and Vulture" at

Silverbridge, though it was blessed with a mayor and corporation, and was blessed also with a Member of

Parliament all to itself, was not blessed with a courthouse. The magistrates were therefore compelled to sit in

the big room at the "George and Vulture" in which the county balls were celebrated, and the meeting of the

West Barsetshire freemasons was held. That part of the country was, no doubt, very much ashamed of its

backwardness in this respect, but as yet nothing had been done to remedy the evil. Thompson and his fly were

therefore driven into the yard of the inn, and Mr and Mrs Crawley were ushered by him up into a little

bedchamber close adjoining to the big room in which the magistrates were already assembled. 'There's a bit

of a fire here,' said Thompson, 'and you can make yourselves a little warm.' He himself was shivering with

'I'll have a chair for you at the end of the table, just nigh to him,' said Thompson. 'You can slip into it and say

Mr Crawley had not spoken a word since he had entered the vehicle. Nor had she said much to him, but had

sat with him holding his hand in hers. Now he spoke to her'Where is it that we are?' he asked.

'We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready. They are in the next room.'

'And I see crowds of people about.' There were crowds of people about. There had been men in the yard, and

others standing about on the stairs, and the public room was full of men who were curious to see the

clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to hear what would be the result of the case before the

magistrates. He must be committed; so, at least said everybody; but then there would be the question of bail.

Would the magistrates let him out on bail, and who would be the bailsmen? 'Why are the people here?' said

'They have come to see the degradation of a clergyman,' said he; 'and they will not be disappointed.'

'Yesmisfortune can degrade, and poverty. A man is degraded when the cares of the world press so heavily

upon him that he cannot rouse himself. They have come to look at me as though I were a hunted beast.'

'They have not always had a clergyman before them as a criminal.' Then he was silent for a while, while she

was chafing his cold hands. 'Would that I were dead, before they brought me to this! Would that I were dead!'

'Would that I were dead!' he repeated. 'The load is too heavy for me to bear, and I would that I were dead.'

The time seemed very long before Thompson returned and asked them to accompany him into the big room.

When he did so, Mr Crawley grasped hold of chair as though he had resolved that he would not go.

But his wife whispered a word to him, and he obeyed her. 'He will follow me,' she said to the policeman. And

in that way they went from the smaller room into the large one. Thompson went first; Mrs Crawley with her

veil down came next; and the wretched man followed his wife, with his eyes fixed upon the ground and his

hands clasped together upon his breast. He could at first have seen nothing, and could hardly have known

where he was when they placed him in a chair. She, with better courage, contrived to look round through her

veil, and saw that there was a long board or table covered with green cloth, and that six or seven gentlemen

were sitting at one end of it, while there seemed to be a crowd standing along the sides and about the room.

Her husband was seated at the other end of the table, near the corner, and round the cornerso that she

might be close to himher chair had been placed. On the other side of him there was another chair, now

There were five magistrates sitting there. Lord Lufton, from Framley, was in the chair;a handsome man,

still young, who was very popular in the county. The cheque which had been cashed had borne his signature,

and he had consequently expressed his intention of not sitting on the board; but Mr Walker, desirous of

having him there, had overruled him, showing that the loss was not his loss. The cheque, if stolen, had not

been stolen from him. He was not the prosecutor. 'No, by Jove,' said Lord Lufton, 'if I could quash the whole

Then there was the Hon George De Courcy, Lord De Courcy's brother, from Castle Courcy. Lord De Courcy

did not live in the county, but his brother did so, and endeavoured to maintain the glory of the family by the

discretion of his conduct. He was not, perhaps, among the wisest of men, but he did very well as a county

magistrate, holding his tongue, keeping his eyes open, and, on such occasions as this, obeying Mr Walker in

all things. Dr Tempest was also there, the rector of the parish, he being both magistrate and clergyman. There

were many in Silverbridge who declared that Dr Tempest would have done far better to stay away when a

brother clergyman was thus to be brought before the bench; but it had been long since Dr Tempest had cared

what was said about him in Silverbridge. He had become accustomed to the life he led as to like to be

disliked, and to be enamoured of unpopularity. So when Mr Walker had ventured to suggest to him that,

perhaps, he might not choose to be there, he had laughed Mr Walker to scorn. 'Of course I shall be there,' he

said. 'I am interested in the casevery much interested. Of course I shall be there.' And had not Lord Lufton

been present he would have made himself more conspicuous by taking the chair. Mr Fothergill was the

fourth. Mr Fothergill was man of business to the Duke of Omnium, who was the great owner of property in

and around Silverbridge, and he was the most active magistrate in that part of the county. He was a sharp

man, and not at all likely to have any predisposition in favour of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr Thorne of

Chaldicotes, a gentleman whose name has been already mentioned in these pages. He had been for many

years a medical man practising in a little village in the further end of the county; but it had come to be his

fate, late in life, to marry a great heiress, with whose money the ancient house and domain of Chaldicotes had

been purchased from the Sowerbys. Since then Dr Thorne had done his duty well as a country

gentlemannot, however, without some little want of smoothness between him and the duke's people.

Chaldicotes lay next to the duke's territory, and the duke had wished to buy Chaldicotes. When Chaldicotes

slipped through the duke's fingers and went into the hands of Dr Thorneor of Dr Thorne's wifethe duke

had been very angry with Mr Fothergill. Hence it had come to pass that there had not always been

smoothness between the duke's people and the Chaldicotes people. It was now rumoured that Dr Thorne

intended to stand for the county on the next vacancy, and that did not tend to make things smoother. On the

right hand of Lord Lufton sat Lord George and Mr Fothergill, and beyond Mr Fothergill sat Mr Walker, and

beyond Mr Walker sat Mr Walker's clerk. On the left hand of the chairman were Dr Tempest and Dr Thorne,

and a little lower down was Mr Zachary Winthrop, who held the situation of clerk to the magistrates. Many

people in Silverbridge said that this was all wrong, as Mr Winthrop was partner with Mr Walker, who was

always employed before the magistrates if there was any employment going for an attorney. For this,

however, Mr Walker cared very little. He had so much of his own way in Silverbridge, that he was supposed

There were many other gentlemen in the room, and some who knew Mr Crawley with more or less intimacy.

He, however, took notice of no one, and when one friend, who had really known him well, came up behind

and spoke to him gently leaning over his chair the poor man barely recognised his friend.

'I'm sure your husband won't forget me,' said Mr Robarts, the clergyman at Framley, as he gave his hand to

'No, Mr Robarts, he does not forget you. But you must excuse him if at this moment he is not quite himself. It

'I can understand all that; but I'll tell you why I have come. I suppose this inquiry will finish the whole affair,

and clear up whatever may be the difficulty. But should it not be so, it may be just possible, Mrs Crawley,

that something may be said about bail. I don't understand much about it, and I daresay you do not either; but

if there should be anything of that sort, let Mr Crawley name me. A brother clergyman will be best, and I'll

At the same time there was a conversation going on between Mr Walker and another attorney standing behind

him, Mr Mason. 'I'll go to him,' said Walker, 'and try to arrange it.' So Mr Walker seated himself in the empty

chair beside Mr Crawley, and endeavoured to explain to the wretched man, that he would do well to allow Mr

Mason to assist him. Mr Crawley seemed to listen to all that was said, and then turned to the speaker sharply:

'I will have no one to assist me,' he said so loudly that everyone in the room heard the words. 'I am innocent.

Why should I want assistance? Nor have I the money to pay for it.' Mr Mason made a quick movement

forward, intending to explain that that consideration need offer no impediment, but was stopped by further

speech by Mr Crawley. 'I will have no one to help me,' said he, standing upright, and for the first time

removing his hat from his head. 'Go on, and do what it is you have to do.' After than he did not sit down till

the proceedings were nearly over, though he was invited more than once by Lord Lufton to do so.

We need not go through all the evidence that was brought to bear upon the question. It was proved that

money for the cheque was paid to Mr Crawley's messenger, and that this money was given to Mr Crawley.

When there occurred some little delay in the chain of evidence necessary to show that Mr Crawley had signed

and sent the cheque and got the money, he became impatient. 'Why do you trouble the man?' he said. 'I had

the cheque, and I sent him; I got the money. Has anyone denied it, that you would strive to drive a poor man

like that beyond his wits?' Then Mr Soames and the manager of the bank showed what inquiry had been

made as soon as the cheque came back from the London bank; how at first they had both thought that Mr

Crawley could of course explain the matter and how he explained it by a statement which was manifestly

untrue. Then there was evidence to prove that the cheque could not have been paid to him by Mr Soames, and

as this was given, Mr Crawley shook his head and again became impatient. 'I erred in that,' he exclaimed. 'Of

course I erred. In my haste I thought it was so, and in my haste I said so. I am not good at reckoning money

and remembering sums; but I say that I had been wrong when my error was shown to me, and I

Up to this point he had behaved not only with so much spirit, but with so much reason, that his wife began to

hope that the importance of the occasion had brought back the clearness of his mind, and that he would, even

now, be able to place himself right as the inquiry went on. Then it was explained that Mr Crawley had stated

that the cheque had been given to him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown that it could not have been

given to him by Mr Soames. In reference to this, Mr Walker was obliged to explain that application had been

made to the dean, who was abroad, and that the dean had stated that he had given fifty pounds to his friend.

Mr Walker explained also that the very notes of which this fifty pounds had consisted had been traced back to

Mr Crawley, and that they had no connexion with the cheque or with the money which had been given for the

Mr Soames stated that he had lost the cheque with a pocketbook; that he had certainly lost it on the day on

which he had called on Mr Crawley at Hogglestock; and that he missed his pocketbook on his journey back

from Hogglestock to Barchester. At the moment of missing it he remembered that he had taken the book out

from his pocket in Mr Crawley's room, and, at that moment, he had not doubted that he had left it in Mr

Crawley's house. He had written and sent to Mr Crawley to inquire, but had been assured that nothing had

been found. There had been no other property of value in the pocketbooknothing but a few visitingcards

and a memorandum, and he had therefore stopped the cheque at the London bank, and thought no more about

Mr Crawley was then asked to explain in what way he came possessed of the cheque. The question was first

put by Lord Lufton; but it soon fell into Mr Walker's hands, who certainly asked it with all the kindness with

which such an inquiry could be made. Could Mr Crawley at all remember by what means that bit of paper

had come into his possession, or how long he had had it? He answered the last question first. 'It had been with

me for months.' And why had he kept it. He looked round the room sternly, almost savagely, he answered,

fixing his eyes for a moment upon almost every face around him as he did so. Then he spoke. 'I was driven by

shame to keep itand then by shame to use it.' That his statement was true, no one in the room doubted it.

And then the other question was pressed upon him; and he lifted up his hands, and raised his voice, and swore

by the Saviour in whom he trusted, and he knew not from whence the money had come to him. Why then had

he said that it had come from the dean? He had thought so. The dean had given him money, covered up, in an

enclosure, 'so that the touch of the coin might not add to my disgrace in taking alms,' said the wretched man,

thus speaking openly and freely in his agony of the shame which he had striven so persistently to hide. He

had not seen the dean's monies as they had been given, and he had thought that the cheque had been with

Then there was a conference between the magistrates and Mr Walker, in which Mr Walker submitted that the

magistrates had no alternative but to commit the gentleman. To this Lord Lufton demurred, and with him Dr

'I believe, as I am sitting here,' said Lord Lufton, 'that he has told the truth, and that he does not know any

Lord George remarked that it was the 'queerest thing he had ever come across.' Dr Tempest merely shook his

head. Mr Fothergill pointed out that even supposing the gentleman's statement to be true, it by no means went

towards establishing the gentleman's innocence. The cheque had been traced to the gentleman's hands, and

the gentleman was bound to show how it had come into his possession. Even supposing that the gentleman

had found the cheque in his house, which was likely enough, he was not thereby justified in changing it; and

applying the proceeds to his own purposes. Mr Walker told them that Mr Fothergill was right, and that the

'I don't see it,' said Lord Lufton. 'I might have a lot of paper money on me, and not know from Adam where I

'But you would have to show where you got it, my lord, when inquiry was made,' said Mr Fothergill.

Lord Lufton, who was not particularly fond of Mr Fothergill, and was very unwilling to be instructed by him

in any of the duties of a magistrate, turned his back at once upon the duke's agent; but within three minutes

Mr Crawley had again seated himself, and during this period of the affair was leaning over the table with his

face buried on his arms. Mrs Crawley sat by his side, utterly impotent as to any assistance, just touching him

with her hand, and waiting behind her veil till she should be made to understand what was the decision of the

magistrates. This was at last communicated to herand to himin a whisper by Mr Walker. Mr Crawley

must understand that he was committed to take his trial at Barchester, at the next assizes, which would be

held in April, but that bail would be taken;in his own bail in five hundred pounds, and that of two others in

two hundred and fifty pounds each. And Mr Walker explained further that he and the bailsmen were ready,

and that the bailbond was prepared. The bailsmen were to be the Rev Mr Robarts and Major Grantly. In five

minutes the bond was signed and Mr Crawley was at liberty to go away a free mantill the Barchester

Of all that was going on at this time Mr Crawley knew little or nothing, and Mrs Crawley did not know

much. She did say a word of thanks to Mr Robarts, and begged that the same might be said tothe other

gentleman. If she had heard the Major's name she did not remember it. Then they were led out back into the

bedroom, where Mrs Walker was found, anxious to do something, if she only knew what, to comfort the

wretched husband and the wretched wife. But what comfort or consolation could there be within their reach?

There was tea made for them, and sandwiches cut from the Inn larder. And there was sherry in the Inn

They were taken home again in the fly, returning without the escort of Mr Thompson, and as they went home

some few words were spoken by Mrs Crawley. 'Josiah,' she said, 'there will be a way out of this, even yet, if

'There is a way out of it,' he said. 'There is a way. There is but one way.' When he had spoken she said no

more, but resolved that her eye should never be off him, nonot for a moment. Then, when she had gotten

him once more into that front parlour, she threw her arms around him and kissed him.

The tidings of what had been done by the magistrates at their petty sessions was communicated the same

night to Grace Crawley by Miss Prettyman. Miss Anne Prettyman had heard the news within five minutes of

the execution of the bailbond, and had rushed to her sister with information as to the event. 'They have

found him guilty; they have, indeed. They have convicted himor whatever it is, because he couldn't say

where he got it.' 'You do not mean that they have sent him to prison?' 'No;not to prison; not as yet, that is. I

don't understand it altogether; but he's to be tried again in the assizes. In the meantime he's to be out on bail.

Major Grantly is to be the bailand Mr Robarts. That, I think, was very nice of him.' It was undoubtedly the

fact that Miss Anne Prettyman had received an accession of pleasurable emotion when she learned that Mr

Crawley had not been sent away scatheless, but had been condemned, as it were, to public trial at the assizes.

And yet she would have done anything in her power to save Grace Crawley, or even to save her father. And it

must be explained that Miss Anne Prettyman was supposed to be specially efficient in teaching Roman

history to her pupils, although she was so manifestly ignorant of the course of the law in the country in which

she lived. 'Committed him,' said Miss Prettyman, correcting her sister with scorn. 'They have not convicted

him. Had they convicted him there would be no question of bail.' 'I don't know how that all is, Annabella, but

at any rate Major Grantly is to be the bailsman, and there is to be another trial at Barchester.' 'There cannot be

more than one trial in a criminal case,' said Miss Prettyman, 'unless the jury should disagree, or something of

that kind. I suppose he has been committed and the trial will take place at the assizes.' 'Exactlythat's just it.'

Had Lord Lufton appeared as lictor and had Thompson carried the fasces, Miss Anne would have known

The sad tidings were not told to Grace till the evening. Mrs Crawley, when the inquiry was over before the

magistrates, would fain have had herself driven to the Miss Prettyman's school, that she might see her

daughter; but she felt that to be impossible while her husband was in her charge. The father would of course

have gone to his child, had the visit been suggested to him; but that would have caused another terrible scene;

and the mother, considering it all in her mind, thought it better to abstain. Miss Prettyman did her best to

make poor Grace think that the affair had so far gone favourablydid her best, that is, without saying

anything which her conscience told her to be false. 'It is to be settled at the assizes in April,' she said.

'Your papa will be at home, just as usual. He must have someone to advise him. I daresay it would have been

'But they are always harder for poor papa and mamma than for anybody else.' In answer to this Miss

Prettyman made some remarks intended to be wise and kind at the same time. Grace, whose eyes were laden

with tears, made no immediate reply to this, but reverted to her former statement that she must go home. 'I

The poor girl soon learned from the intended consolations of those around her, from the illconsidered

kindness of the pupils, and from words which fell from the servants, that her father had in fact been judged to

be guilty, as far as judgment had as yet gone. 'They do say, miss, it's only because he hadn't a lawyer,' said the

housekeeper. And if men so kind as Lord Lufton and Mr Walker had made him out to be guilty, what could

be expected from a stern judge down from London, who would know nothing about her poor father and his

peculiarities, and from twelve jurymen who would be shopkeepers out of Barchester. It would kill her father,

and then it would kill her mother; and after that it would kill her also. And there was no money in the house

at home. She knew it well. She had been paid three pounds a month for her services at the school, and the

money for the last two months had been sent to her mother. Yet, badly as she wanted anything that she might

be able to earn, she knew that she could not go on teaching. It had come to be acknowledged by both the Miss

Prettymans that any teaching on her part at the present was impossible. She would go home and perish with

the rest of them. There was no room left for hope to her, or to any of her family. They had accused her father

of being a common thiefher father whom she knew to be so nobly honest, her father whom she believed to

be among the most devoted of God's servants. He was accused of a paltry theft, and the magistrates and

lawyers and policemen among them had decided that the accusation was true! How could she look the girls in

On the next morning there came a letter from Miss Lily Dale, and with that in her hand she again went to

Miss Prettyman. She must go home, she said. She must at any rate go to her mother. Could Miss Prettyman

be kind enough to send her home. 'I haven't sixpence to pay for anything,' she said, bursting into tears; 'and I

haven't a right to ask for it.' Then the statements which Miss Prettyman made in her eagerness to cover this

latter misfortune were decidedly false. There was so much money owing to Grace, she said; money for this,

money for that, money for anything or nothing! Ten pounds would hardly clear the account. 'Nobody owes

me anything; but if you'll lend me five shillings!' said Grace, in her agony. Miss Prettyman, as she made her

way through this difficulty, thought of Major Grantly and his love. It would have been of no use, she knew.

Had she brought them together on that Monday, Grace would have said nothing to him. Indeed such a

meeting at such a time would have been improper. But, regarding Major Grantly, as she did, in the light of a

millionairefor the wealth of the Archdeacon was notorious she could not but think it a pity that poor

Grace should be begging for five shillings. 'You need not at any rate trouble yourself about money, Grace,'

said Miss Prettyman. 'What is a pound or two more or less between you and me? It is almost unkind of you to

think about it. Is that letter in your hand anything for me to see, my dear?' Then Grace explained that she did

not wish to show Miss Dale's letter, but that Miss Dale had asked her to go to Allington. 'And you will go,'

said Miss Prettyman. 'It will be the best thing for you, and the best thing for your mother.'

It was at last decided that Grace should go to her friend at Allington, and to Allington she went. She returned

home for a day or two, and was persuaded by her mother to accept the invitation that had been given her. At

Hogglestock, while she was there, new troubles came up, of which something will shortly be told; but they

were troubles in which Grace could give no assistance to her mother, and which, indeed, though they were in

truth troubles, as will be seen, were so far beneficent that they stirred her father up to a certain action which

was in itself salutary. 'I think it will be better that you should be away, dearest,' said her mother, who now, for

the first time, heard plainly what poor Grace had to tell about Major Grantly;Grace having, heretofore,

barely spoken, in most ambiguous words, of Major Grantly as a gentleman whom she had met at Framley,

In old days, long ago, Lucy Robarts, the present Lady Lufton, sister of the Rev Mark Robarts, the parson of

Framley, had sojourned for a while under Mrs Crawley's roof at Hogglestock. Peculiar circumstances, which

need not, perhaps, be told here, had given occasion for the visit. She had then resolvedfor her future

destiny been known to her before she had left Mrs Crawley's housethat she would in coming days do much

to befriend the family of her friend; but the doing of much had been very difficult. And the doing of anything

had come to be very difficult through a certain indiscretion on Lord Lufton's part. Lord Lufton had offered

assistance, pecuniary assistance to Mr Crawley, which Mr Crawley had rejected with outspoken anger. What

was Lord Lufton to him that his lordship should dare to come to him with his paltry money in his hand? But

after a while, Lady Lufton, exercising some cunning in the operation of her friendship, had persuaded her

sisterinlaw at the Framley parsonage to have Grace Crawley over there as a visitorand there she had

been during the summer holidays previous to the commencement of our story. And there, at Framley, she had

become acquainted with Major Grantly, who was staying with Lord Lufton at Framley Court. She had then

said something to her mother about Major Grantly, something ambiguous, something about his being 'very

nice', and the mother had thought how great was the pity that her daughter, who was 'nice' too in her

estimation, should have had so few of those adjuncts to assist her which come from full pockets. She had

thought no more about it then; but now she felt herself constrained to think more. 'I don't quite understand

why he should have come to Miss Prettyman on Monday,' said Grace, 'because he hardly knows her at all.'

'Because Miss Prettyman said it wasto ask after me. Oh, mamma, I must tell you. I know he did like me.'

'No, mamma; I don't think he did. I think he understood it all too well, for I could not have spoken to him

Mrs Crawley pursued her crossexamination no further, but made up her mind that it would be better that her

girl should be away from her wretched home during this period of her life. If it were written in the book of

fate that one of her children should be exempted from the series of misfortunes which seemed to fall, on after

another, almost as a matter of course, upon her husband, upon her, and upon her family; if so great a good

fortune were in store for her Grace as such a marriage as this which seemed to be so nearly offered to her, it

might probably be well that Grace should be as little at home as possible. Mrs Crawley had heard nothing but

good of Major Grantly; but she knew that the Grantlys were proud rich peoplewho lived with their heads

high up in the countyand it could hardly be that a son of the archdeacon would like to take his bride direct

It was settled that Grace should go to Allington as soon as a letter could be received from Miss Dale in return

to Grace's note, and on the third morning after her arrival at home she started. None but they who have

themselves been poor gentrygentry so poor as not to know how to raise a shillingcan understand the

peculiar bitterness of the trials which such poverty produces. The poverty of the normal poor does not

approach it; or, rather, the pangs arising from such poverty are altogether of a different sort. To be hungry

and have no food, to be cold and have no fuel, to be threatened with distraint for one's few chairs and tables,

and with the loss of the roof over one's headall these miseries, which, if they do not positively reach, are so

frequently near to reaching the normal poor, are, no doubt, the severest of the trials to which humanity is

subjected. They threaten lifeor, if not life, then libertyreducing the abject one to a choice between

captivity or starvation. By hook or crook, the poor gentleman or poor ladylet the one or the other be so

poordoes not often come to the last extremity of the workhouse. There are such cases, but they are

exceptional. Mrs Crawley, through all her sufferings, had never yet found her cupboard to be absolutely bare,

or the breadpan to be actually empty. But there are pangs to which, at the time, starvation itself would seem

to be preferable. The angry eyes of the unpaid tradesman, savage with anger which one knows to be

justifiable; the taunt of the poor servant who wants her wages; the gradual relinquishment of habits which the

soft nurture of earlier, kinder years had made second nature; the wan cheeks of the wife whose malady

demands wine; the rags of the husband whose outward occupations demand decency; the neglected children,

who are learning not be the children of gentlefolk; and, worse than all, the alms and doles of halfgenerous

friends, the waning pride, the pride that will not wane, the growing doubt whether it be not better to bow the

head, and acknowledge to all the world that nothing of the pride of station is leftthat the hand is open to

receive and ready to touch the cap, that the fall from the upper to the lower level has been

accomplishedthese are the pangs of poverty which drive the Crawleys of the world to be frequent

entertaining of that idea of the bare bodkin. It was settled that Grace should go to Allington;but how about

'I don't think they'll mind about my being shabby at Allington. They live very quietly there.'

'Lily is very nice, mamma; but I shan't mind her so much as her mother, because she knows it all. I have told

'Miss Prettyman told me I was to come to her,' said Grace, who had already taken some from the

schoolmistress, which at once had gone into mother's pocket, and into household purposes. 'She said I should

be sure to go to Allington, and that of course I should go to her, as I must pass through Silverbridge.'

'I hope papa will not ask about it,' said Mrs Crawley. Luckily papa did not ask about it, being at the moment

occupied much with other thoughts and other troubles, and Grace was allowed to return by Silverbridge, and

to take what was needed from Miss Prettyman. Who can tell of the mending and patching, of the very

wearing midnight hours of needlework which were accomplished before the poor girl went, so that she might

not reach her friend's house in actual rags? And when the world was ended, what was there to show for it? I

do not think that the idea of the bare bodkin, as regarded herself, ever flitted across Miss Crawley's

brainshe being one of those who are very strong to endure; but it must have occurred to her very often that

the repose of the grave is sweet, and that there cometh after death a levelling and making even of things,

Grace no doubt looked forward to a levelling and making even of thingsor perhaps to something more

prosperous than that, which should come to her relief on this side of the grave. She could not but have high

hopes in regard to her future destiny. Although, as has been said, she understood no more than she ought to

have understood from Miss Prettyman's account of the conversation with Major Grantly, still, innocent as she

was, she had understood much. She knew that the man loved her, and she knew also that she loved the man.

She thoroughly comprehended that the present could be to her no time for listening to speeches of love, or for

giving kind answers; but still I think that she did look for relief on this side of the grave.

'Tut, tut,' said Miss Prettyman, as Grace in vain tried to conceal her tears up in the private sanctum. 'You

ought to know me by this time, and to have learned that I can understand things.' The tears had flown in

return not only for the five gold sovereigns which Miss Prettyman had pressed into her hand, but on account

of the prettiest, soft, grey merino frock that ever charmed a girl's eye. 'I should like to know how many girls I

have given dresses to, when they have been going out visiting. Law, my dear; they take them, many of them,

from us old maids, almost as if we were only paying our debts in giving them.' And then Miss Anne gave her

a cloth cloak, very warm, with pretty buttons and gimp trimmingsjust such a cloak as any girl might like to

wear who thought that she would be seen out walking with her Major Grantly on a Christmas morning. Grace

Crawley did not expect to be seen out walking by her Major Grantly, but nevertheless she liked the cloak. By

the power of her practical will, and by her true sympathy, the elder Miss Prettyman had for a while conquered

the annoyance, which on Grace's part, was attached to the receiving of gifts, by the consciousness of her

poverty; and when Miss Anne, with some pride in the tone of her voice, expressed a hope that Grace would

think the cloak pretty, Grace put her arms pleasantly round her friend's neck, and declared that it was very

Grace was met at the Guestwick railway station by her friend Lily Dale, and was driven over to Allington in a

pony carriage belonging to Lily's uncle, the squire of the parish. I think she will be excused in having put on

her new cloak, not so much because of the cold as with a view of making the best of herself before Mrs Dale.

And yet she knew Mrs Dale would know all the circumstances of her poverty, and was very glad that it

should be so. 'I am so glad that you have come, my dear,' said Lily. 'It will be such a comfort.'

'And mamma is so glad. From the moment that we both talked ourselves into eagerness about itwhile I was

'A trouble to mamma! Indeed you will not. You shall be a trouble to no one but me. I will have all the trouble

Grace Crawley could not during the journey be at home and at ease even with her friend Lily. She was going

to a strange house under strange circumstances. Her father had not indeed been tried and found guilty of theft,

but the charge of theft had been made against him, and the magistrates before whom it had been made had

thought the charge was true. Grace knew all the newspapers had told the story, and was of course aware that

Mrs Dale would have heard it. Her own mind was full of it, and though she dreaded to speak of it, yet she

could not be silent. Miss Dale, who understood much of this, endeavoured to talk her friend into easiness; but

she feared to begin upon the one subject, and before the drive was over they were, both of them, too cold for

much conversation. 'There's mamma,' said Miss Dale as they drove up, turning out of the street of the village

to the door of Mrs Dale's house. 'She always knows by instinct, when I am coming. You must understand

now that you are among us, that mamma and I are not mother and daughter, but two loving old ladies living

together in peace and harmony. We do have our quarrelswhether the chicken shall be roast or boiled, but

never anything beyond that. Mamma, here is Grace, starved to death; and she says if you don't give her some

'And I am worse than she is, because I've been driving. It's all up with Bertram and Mr Green for the next

week at least. It is freezing as hard as it can freeze, and they might as well try to hunt in Lapland as here.'

'Have you ever observed, Grace,' said Miss Dale,' how much amusement gentlemen require, and how

'Oh, but it is so. Now, with women, it is supposed that they can amuse themselves or live without amusement.

Once or twice in a year, perhaps something is done for them. There is an arrowshooting party, or a ball, or a

picnic. But the catering for men's sport is never ending, and is always paramount to everything else. And yet

the pet game of the day never goes off properly. In partridge time, the partridges are wild, and won't come to

be killed. In hunting time the foxes won't run straight the wretches. They show no spirit, and will take to

ground to save their brushes. Then comes a nipping frost, and skating is proclaimed; but the ice is always

rough, and the W.s have deserted the country. And as for salmonwhen the summer comes round I

do really believe that they suffer a great deal about the salmon. I'm sure they never catch any. So they go

back to their clubs and their cards, and their billiards, and abuse their cooks and blackball their friends. That's

'Because I have to listen to Bertram, as you never will do. We've got such a Mr Green down here, Grace. He's

such a duck of a mansuch topboots and all the rest of it. And yet they whisper to me that he doesn't

always ride to hounds. And to see him play billiards is beautiful, only he can never make a stroke. I hope you

play billiards, Grace, because uncle Christopher has just had a new table put up.'

'Then Mr Green shall teach you. He'll do anything that you ask him. If you don't approve the colour of the

ball, he'll go to London to get you another one. Only you must be very careful about saying that you like

anything before him, as he'll be sure to have it for you the next day. Mamma happened to say that she wanted

a fourpenny postage stamp, and he walked off to Guestwick to get it for her instantly, although it was

'He did nothing of the kind, Lily,' said her mother. 'He was going to Guestwick, and was very goodnatured,

'Of course he's goodnatured, I know that. And there's my cousin Bertram. He's Captain Dale, you know. But

he prefers to be called Mr Dale, because he has left the army, and has set up as junior squire of the parish.

Uncle Christopher is the real squire; only Bertram does all the work. And now you know all about us. I'm

'No; he does not live here. I never heard of his living anywhere. He was something once, but I don't know

what; and I don't think he's anything now in particular. But he's Bertram's friend, and like most men, as one

sees them, he never has much to do. Does Major Grantly ever go forth to fight his country's battles?' This last

question she asked in a low whisper, so that the words did not reach her mother. Grace blushed up to her

'We shall get round her in a day or two, mamma,' said Lily Dale to her mother that night. 'I'm sure it will be

'Things are better when they are talked about. I'm sure they are. And it will be good to make her accustomed

to speak of Major Grantly. From what Mary Walker tells me, he certainly means it. And if so, she should be

'No, mamma; but she is at present such a child that she knows nothing of her powers. She should be made to

understand that it is possible that even a Major Grantly may think himself fortunate in being allowed to love

Lord Lufton, as he drove home to Framley after the meeting of the magistrates at Silverbridge, discussed the

matter with his brotherinlaw, Mark Robarts, the clergyman. Lord Lufton was driving a dogcart, and went

along the road at the rate of twelve miles an hour. 'I'll tell you what it is, Mark,' he said, 'that man is innocent;

'Were you in the room when he protested so vehemently that he did not know where he got the money?'

'Anybody must have believed himexcept old Tempest, who never believes anybody, and Fothergill, who

always suspects everybody. The truth is, that he found the cheque and put it by, and did not remember

'Yes, if it wasn't that he is such a poor, cracked, crazy creature, with his mind all abroad. I think Soames did

drop his book in his house. I'm sure Soames would not say so unless he was quite confident. Somebody has

picked it up, and in some way the cheque has got into Crawley's hand. Then he has locked it up and forgotten

all about it; and when that butcher threatened him, he has put his hand upon it, and he thought, or believed,

that it had come from Soames or the dean or from heaven, if you will. When a man is so crazy as that, you

'And therefore there should be a lawyer to tell the jury what to do. They should have somebody up out of the

parish to show that he is beside himself half the time. His wife would be the best person, only it would be

'Mrs Proudie would come upon him in such a case as that, and sequester his living.'

'And what will Mrs Proudie do when he's a convicted thief? Simply unfrock him, and take away his living

altogether. Nothing on earth should induce me to find him guilty if I were on a jury.'

'YesI've been one, at least, in doing so. I simply did that which Walker told us we must do. A magistrate is

not left to himself as a juryman is. I'd eat the biggest pair of boots in Barchester before I found him guilty. I

say, Mark, you must talk it over with the women, and see what can be done for them. Lucy tells me that

On this evening Archdeacon Grantly and his wife dined and slept at Framley Court, there having been a very

long family friendship between old Lady Lufton and the Grantlys, and Dr Thorne with his wife, from

Chaldicotes, also dined at Framley. There was also there another clergyman from Barchester, one Mr

Champion, one of the prebends of the cathedral. There were only three now who had houses in the city since

the retrenchments of the ecclesiastical commission had come into full force. And this Mr Champion was dear

to the Dowager Lady Lufton, because he carried on worthily the clerical war against the bishop which had

raged in Barchester ever since Dr Proudie had come therewhich war old Lady Lufton, good and pious and

charitable as she was, considered that she was bound to keep up, even to the knife, till Dr Proudie and all his

satellites should have been banished into the outer darkness. As the light of the Proudies still shone brightly,

it was probable that poor old Lady Lufton might die before her battle was accomplished. She often said that it

would be so, but when so saying, always expressed a wish that is might be carried on after her death. 'I shall

never, never rest in my grave,' she had once said to the archdeacon, 'while that woman sits in your father's

palace.' For the archdeacon's father had been Bishop of Barchester before Dr Proudie. What mode of getting

rid of the bishop or his wife Lady Lufton proposed to herself, I am unable to say; but I think she lived in

hopes that in some way it might be done. If only the bishop could have been found to have stolen a cheque

for twenty pounds instead of poor Mr Crawley, Lady Lufton would, I think, have been satisfied.

In the course of these battles Framley Court would sometimes assume a clerical aspecthaving a prevailing

hue, as it were, of black coats, which was not altogether to the taste of Lord Lufton, and as to which he would

make complaint to his wife, and to Mark Robarts, himself a clergyman. 'There's more of this than I can stand,'

he'd say to the latter. 'There's deuced more of it than you like yourself, I know.'

'It's not for me to like or dislike. It's a great thing having your mother in the parish.'

'That's all very well; and of course she'll do as she likes. She may ask whom she pleases here, and I shan't

interfere. It's the same as though it was her own house. But I shall take Lucy to Lufton.' Now Lord Lufton had

been building his house at Lufton for the last seven years and it was not yet finishedor nearly finished, if

all that his wife had said were true. And if they could have their way, it never would be finished. And so, in

order that Lord Lufton might not actually be driven away by the turmoils of ecclesiastical contest, the

younger Lady Lufton would endeavour to moderate both the wrath and the zeal of the elder one, and would

struggle against the coming clergymen. On this day, however, three sat at the board at Framley, and Lady

Lufton, in her justification to her son, swore that the invitation had been given by her daughterinlaw. 'You

know, my dear,' the dowager said to Lord Lufton, 'something must be done for these poor Crawleys; and as

'And the archdeacon could not subscribe his tenpound note without having Champion to back him?'

'Never mind, mother. I've no special dislike for Champion, only as you are not paid five thousand pound a

year for your trouble, it is rather hard that you should have to all the work of opposition bishop in the

It was felt by them allincluding Lord Lufton himself, who became so interested in the matter as to forgive

the black coats before the evening was overthat this matter of Mr Crawley's committal was very serious,

and demanded the full energies of their party. It was known to them all that the feeling at the palace was

inimical to Mr Crawley. 'That sheBeelzebub hates him for his poverty, and because Arabin brought him into

the diocese,' said the archdeacon, permitting himself to use very strong language in his allusion to the

bishop's wife. It must be recorded on his behalf that he used the phrase in the presence only of the gentlemen

of the party. I think he might have whispered the word in the ear of his confidential friend old Lady Lufton,

and perhaps have given no offence; but he would not have ventured to use such words aloud in the presence

'You forget, archdeacon,' said Dr Thorne, laughing, 'that the sheBeelzebub is my wife's particular friend.'

'Not a bit of it,' said the archdeacon. 'Your wife knows better than that. You tell her what I call her, and if she

complains of the name I'll unsay it.' It may therefore be supposed that Dr Thorne, and Mrs Thorne, and the

archdeacon, knew each other intimately, and understood each other's feelings on these matters.

It was quite true that the palace party was inimical to Mr Crawley. Mr Crawley undoubtedly was poor, and

had not been so submissive to episcopal authority as it behoves any clergyman to be whose loaves and fishes

are scanty. He had raised his back more than once against orders emanating from the palace in a manner that

had made the hairs on the head of the bishop's wife to stand almost on end, and had taken as much upon

himself as though his living had been worth twelve hundred a year. Mrs Proudie, almost as energetic in her

language as the archdeacon, had called him a beggarly perpetual curate. 'We must have perpetual curates, my

dear,' the bishop had said. 'They should know their places then. But what can you expect of a creature from

the deanery? All that ought to be altered. The dean should have no patronage in the diocese. No dean should

have any patronage. It is an abuse from the beginning to the end. Dean Arabin, if he had any conscience,

would be doing the duty at Hogglestock himself.' How the bishop strove to teach his wife, with the mildest

words, what really ought to be a dean's duty, and how the wife rejoined by teaching her husband, not in the

mildest words, what ought to be a bishop's duty, we will not further inquire here. The fact that such dialogues

took place at the palace is recorded simply to show that the palatial feeling in Barchester ran counter to Mr

And this was cause enough, if no other cause existed, for partiality to Mr Crawley at Framley Court. But, as

has been partly explained, there existed, if possible, even stronger ground than this for adherence to the

Crawley cause. The younger Lady Lufton had known the Crawleys intimately, and the elder Lady Lufton had

reckoned them among the neighbouring clerical families of her acquaintance. Both these ladies were

therefore staunch in their defence of Mr Crawley. The archdeacon himself had his own reasonsreasons

which at present he kept altogether within his own bosomfor wishing that Mr Crawley had never entered

the diocese. Whether the perpetual curate should or should not be declared a thief, it would terrible to him to

have to call the child of that perpetual curate his daughterinlaw. But not the less on this occasion was he

true to his order, true to his side of the diocese, true to his hatred of the palace.

'I don't believe it for a moment,' he said, as he took his place on the rug before the fire in the drawingroom

when the gentlemen came in from their wine. The ladies understood at once what it was that he couldn't

believe. Mr Crawley had for the moment so usurped the county that nobody thought of talking of anything

'How is it the,' said Mrs Thorne, 'that Lord Lufton, and my husband, and the other wiseacres at Silverbridge,

'Ladies will never understand that magistrates must act in accordance with the law,' said Lord Lufton.

'The fact is, that the magistrate cannot try the question,' said the archdeacon; 'they only hear primary

evidence. In this case I don't believe Crawley would ever have been committed if he had employed an

'I don't think any attorney in the world could have spoken for him better than he spoke for himself,' said Dr

'And yet you committed him,' said his wife. 'What can we do for him? Can't we pay the bail and send him off

Then the whole matter was discussed again, and it was settled among them all that Mr Crawley had

undoubtedly appropriated the cheque through temporary obliquity of judgmentobliquity of judgment and

forgetfulness as to the source from whence the cheque had come to him. 'He has picked it up about the house,

and then has thought that it was his own,' said Lord Lufton. Had they come to the conclusion that such an

appropriation of money had been made by one of the clergy of the palace, by one of the Proudieian party,

they would doubtless have been very loud and very bitter as to the iniquity of the offender. They would have

said as much as to the weakness of the bishop and the wickedness of the bishop's wife, and would have

declared the appropriator to have been as very a thief as ever picked a pocket or opened a bill;but they

were unanimous in their acquittal of Mr Crawley. It had not been his intention, they said, to be a thief, and a

man should be judged only by his intention. It must now be their object to induce a Barchester jury to look at

'When they come to understand how the land lies,' said the archdeacon, 'they will be all right. There's not a

'Their bills are all paid by this new chaplain they've got, and he is made to claim discount on every leg of

mutton,' said the archdeacon. Arguing from which factor from which assertion, he came to the conclusion

But it was agreed on all sides that it would not be well to trust to the unassisted friendship of the Barchester

tradesmen. Mr Crawley must be provided with legal assistance, and this must be furnished to him whether he

should be willing or unwilling to receive it. That there would be a difficulty was acknowledged. Mr Crawley

was known to be a man not easy of persuasion, with a will of his own, with a great energy of obstinacy on

points which he chose to take as being of importance to his calling, or to his own professional status. He had

pleaded his own cause before the magistrates, and it might be that he would insist on doing the same thing

before the judge. At last Mr Robarts, the clergyman from Framley, was deputed from the knot of Crawleian

advocates assembled at Lady Lufton's drawingroom, to undertake the duty of seeing Mr Crawley, and of

explaining to him that his proper defence was regarded as a matter appertaining to the clergy and gentry

generally of that part of the country, and that for the sake of the clergy and gentry the defence must of course

be properly conducted. In such circumstances the expense of the defence would of course be borne by the

clergy and gentry concerned. It was thought that Mr Robarts could put the matter to Mr Crawley with such a

mixture of the strength of manly friendship and the softness of clerical persuasion, as to overcome the

Tidings of Mr Crawley's fate reached the palace at Barchester on the afternoon of the day on which the

magistrates had committed him. All such tidings travel very quickly, conveyed by imperceptible wires, and

distributed by indefatigable message boys whom Rumour seems to supply for the purpose. Barchester is

twenty miles from Silverbridge by road, and more than forty by railway. I doubt whether anyone was

commissioned to send the news along the actual telegraph, and yet Mrs Proudie knew it before four o'clock.

But she did not know it quite accurately. 'Bishop,' she said, standing at her husband's study door. 'They have

committed that man to gaol. There was no help for them unless they had foresworn themselves.'

'Not foresworn themselves, my dear,' said the bishop, striving, as was usual with him, by some meek and

ineffectual word to teach his wife that she was occasionally led by her energy into error. He never persisted in

'I say foresworn themselves!' said Mrs Proudie; 'and now what do you mean to do? This is Thursday, and of

course the man must not be allowed to desecrate the church of Hogglestock by performing the Sunday

'I said they committed him to gaol. So my informant tells me. But of course all Plumstead and Framley set

will move heaven and earth to get him out, so that he may be there as a disgrace to the diocese. I wonder how

the dean will feel when he hears of it! I do indeed. For the dean, though he is an idle, useless man, with no

church principles, and no real piety, still he has a conscience. I think he has a conscience.'

'Well;let us hope so. And if he has a conscience, what must be his feelings when he hears that this creature

whom he has brought into the diocese has been committed to gaol along with common felons.'

'I say with common felons! A downright robbery of twenty pounds, just as though he had broken into the

bank! And so he did, with sly artifice, which is worse in such hands than a crowbar. And now what are we to

do? Here is Thursday, and something must be done before Sunday for the souls of those poor benighted

creatures at Hogglestock.' Mrs Proudie was ready for the battle, and was even now sniffing the blood far off.

'I believe it's a hundred and thirty pounds a year,' she said, before the bishop had collected his thought

'I think we must find out, first of all, whether he is really to be shut up in prison,' said the bishop.

'And suppose he is not to be shut up. Suppose they have been weak, or untrue to their dutyand from what

we know of the magistrates of Barsetshire, there is too much reason to suppose they will have been so;

suppose they have let him out, is he to go about like a roaring lionamong the souls of the people?'

The bishop shook in his shoes. When Mrs Proudie began to talk of the souls of the people he always shook in

his shoes. She had an eloquent way of raising her voice over the word souls that was qualified to make any

ordinary man shake in his shoes. The bishop was a conscientious man, and well know that poor Mr Crawley,

even, would not roar at Hogglestock to the injury of any man's soul. He was aware that this poor clergyman

had done his duty laboriously and efficiently, and he was also aware that though he might have been

committed by the magistrates, and then let out upon bail, he should not be regarded now, in these days before

trial, as a convicted thief. But to explain all this to Mrs Proudie was beyond his power. He knew well that she

would not hear a word in mitigation of Mr Crawley's presumed offence. Mr Crawley belonged to the other

party, and Mrs Proudie was a thoroughgoing partisan. I know a manan excellent fellow, who, being

himself a strong politician, constantly expressed a belief that all politicians opposed to him are thieves,

childmurderers, parricides, lovers of incest, demons upon earth. He is a strong partisan, but not, I think, so

strong as Mrs Proudie. He says that he believes all evil of his opponents; but she really believed the evil. The

archdeacon had called Mrs Proudie a she Beelzebub; but that was a simple ebullition of mortal hatred. He

believed her to simply a vulgar, interfering, brazenfaced virago. Mrs Proudie in truth believed that the

archdeacon was an actual emanation from Satan, sent to these parts to devour souls as she would call

itand that she herself was an emanation of another sort, sent from another source expressly to Barchester,

to prevent such devouring, as far as it might be prevented by a mortal agency. The bishop knew it

allunderstood it all. He regarded the archdeacon as a clergyman belonging to a party opposed to his party,

and he disliked the man. He knew that from his first coming into the diocese he had been encountered with

enmity by the archdeacon and the archdeacon's friends. If left to himself he could feel and to a certain extent

could resent such enmity. But he had no faith in his wife's doctrine of emanations. He had not faith in many

things which she believed religiously;and yet what could he do? If he attempted to explain, she would stop

'Feel! Such men never feel! What feeling can one expect from a convicted thief?'

'A convicted thief,' repeated Mrs Proudie; and she vociferated the words in such a tone that the bishop

resolved that he would for the future let the word convicted pass without notice. After all she was only using

'It won't be proper, certainly, that he should do the services,' suggested the bishop.

'Proper! It would be a scandal to the whole diocese. How could he raise his head as he pronounced the eighth

The bishop, who was seated, fretted himself in his chair, moving about with little movements. He knew that

there was a misery coming upon him; and, as far as he could see, it might become a great miserya huge

blistering sore upon him. When miseries came to him, as they did not unfrequently, he would unconsciously

endeavour to fathom them and weigh them, and then, with some gallantry, resolve to bear them, if he could

find that their depth and weight were not too great for his powers of endurance. He would let the cold wind

whistle by him, putting up the collar of his coat, and would be patient under the winter weather without

complaint. And he would be patient under the sun, knowing well that tranquillity is best for those who have

to bear tropical heat. But when the storm threatened to knock him off his legs, when the earth beneath him

became too hot for his poor tender feetwhat could he do then? There had been with him such periods of

misery, during which he had wailed inwardly and had confessed to himself that the wife of his bosom was too

much for him. Now the storm seemed to be coming very roughly. It would be demanded of him that he

should exercise certain episcopal authority which he knew did not belong to him. Now, episcopal authority

admits of being stretched or contracted according to the character of the bishop who uses it. It is not always

easy for a bishop himself to know what he may do, and what he may not do. He may certainly give advice to

any clergyman in his diocese, and he may give it in such form that it will have in it something of authority.

Such advice coming from a dominant bishop to a clergyman with a submissive mind, has in it very much of

authority. But Bishop Proudie knew that Mr Crawley was not a clergyman with a submissive mind, and he

feared that he himself, as regarded from Mr Crawley's point of view, was not a dominant bishop. And yet he

could only act by advice. 'I will write to him,' said the bishop 'and will explain to him that as he is

'Of course he must not appear in the readingdesk. That scandal must at any rate be inhibited.' Now the

bishop did not at all like the use of the word inhibited, understanding will that Mrs Proudie intended it to be

understood as implying some episcopal command against which there should be no appeal;but he let it

'In either case he will get it tomorrow morning. An hour or two will not signify, and if Mr Thumble takes it

himself we shall know how it is received. It will be well that Thumble should be there in person as he will

'About lodgings? I hardly think Mr Thumble, if we decide that Mr Thumble should undertake the duty'

'But I do not think he should trouble himself to look for lodgings at Hogglestock. He can go over on the

'And who is to do the parish work? Would you have that man, a convicted thief, to look after the schools, and

'There will be a great difficulty; there will indeed,' said the bishop, becoming very unhappy, and feeling that

he was driven by circumstances either assert his own knowledge or teach his wife something of the law with

'The income of the parish must be sequestrated, and he must be paid out of that. Of course he must have the

'I don't believe it, bishop. If the bishop cannot sequestrate, who can? But you are always timid in exercising

the authority put into your hands for wise purposes. Not sequestrate the income of a man who has been

proved to be a thief! You leave that to us, and we will manage it.' The 'us' named comprised Mrs Proudie and

Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write the letter which Mr Thumble was to carry over to Mr

Crawleyand after a while he did write it. Before he commenced the task, however, he sat for some

moments in his armchair close by the fireside, asking himself whether it might not be possible for him to

overcome his enemy in this matter. How would it go with him suppose he were to leave the letter unwritten,

and send in a message by his chaplain to Mrs Proudie, saying that as Mr Crawley was out on bail, the parish

might be left for the present without episcopal interference? She could not make him interfere. She could not

force him to write the letter. So, at least, he said to himself. But as he said it, he almost thought that she could

do these things. In the last thirty years, or more, she had ever contrived by some power latent in her to have

her will effected. But what would happen if now, even now, he were to rebel? That he would personally

become very uncomfortable, he was well aware, but he thought he could bear that. The food would become

badmere ashes, between his teeth, the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavour, the chimneys would

all smoke, the wind would come from the east, and the servants would not answer the bell. Little miseries of

that kind would crowd upon him. He had arrived at a time in life in which such miseries make such men very

miserable; but yet he thought that he could endure them. And what other wretchedness would come to him?

She would scold himfrightfully, loudly, scornfully, and worse than all, continually. But of this he had so

much habitually, that anything added might be borne also;if only he could be sure that the scoldings should

go on in private, that the world of the palace should not be allowed to hear the revilings to which he would be

subjected. But to be scolded publicly was the great evil which he dreaded beyond all evils. He was well aware

that the palace would know his misfortune, that it was known, and freely discussed by all, from the

examining chaplain down to the palace bootboy;nay, that it was known to all the diocese; but yet he

could smile upon those around him, and look as though he held his own like other menunless when open

violence was displayed. But when that voice was heard aloud along the corridors of the palace, and when he

was summoned imperiously by the woman, calling for the bishop, so that all Barchester heard it, and when he

was compelled to creep forth from his study, at the sound of that summons, with distressed face, and shaking

hands, and short hurrying stepsa being to be pitied even by a deaconnot venturing to assume an air of

masterdom should he chance to meet a housemaid on the stairsthen, at such moments as that, he would feel

that any submission was better than the misery which he suffered. And he well knew that should he now

rebel, the whole house would be in a turmoil. He would be bishoped here, bishoped there, before the eyes of

all palatial men and women, till life would be a burden to him. So he got up from his seat over the fire, and

(he left out the dear, because he knew that if he inserted it he would be compelled to write the letter over

'I have heard today with the greatest trouble of spirit, that you have been taken before a bench of magistrates

assembled at Silverbridge, having previously been arrested by the police in your parsonage house at

Hogglestock, and that the magistrates of Silverbridge have committed you to take your trial at the next

'Far be it from me to prejudge the case. You will understand, reverend sir, that I express no opinion whatever

as to your guilt or innocence in this matter. If you have been guilty, may the Lord give you grace to repent of

your great sin and to make such amends as may come from immediate acknowledgement and confession, if

you are innocent, may He protect you, and make your innocence shine before all men. In either case may the

'But I write to you now as your bishop, to explain to you that, circumstanced as you are, you cannot with

decency perform the church services of your parish. I have that confidence in you that I doubt not that you

will agree with me in this, and will be grateful to me for relieving you from the immediate perplexities of

your position. I have, therefore, appointed Rev Caleb Thumble to perform the duties of incumbent of

Hogglestock till such time as a jury shall have decided upon your case at Barchester; and in order that you

may at once become acquainted with Mr Thumble, as will be most convenient that you should do, I will

commission him to deliver this letter into your hand personally tomorrow, trusting that you will receive him

'Touching the remuneration to which Mr Thumble will become entitled for his temporary ministration in the

parish of Hogglestock, I do not at present lay down any strict injunction. He must, at any rate, be paid at a

'I will once again express my fervent hope that the Lord may bring you to see the true state of your own soul,

and that He may fill you with the grace of repentance, so that the bitter waves of the present hour may not

'I have the honour to be, Reverend Sir, 'Your faithful servant in Christ, 'T. BARNUM'

(Baronum Castrum having been the old Roman name from which the modern Barchester is derived, the

The bishop had hardly finished his letter when Mrs Proudie returned to the study, followed by the Rev Caleb

Thumble. Mr Thumble was a little man, about forty years of age, who had a wife and children living in

Barchester, and who existed on such chance clerical crumbs as might fall from the table of the bishop's

patronage. People in Barchester said that Mrs Thumble was a cousin of Mrs Proudie's; but as Mrs Proudie

stoutly denied the connexion, it may be supposed that the people of Barchester were wrong. And, had Mr

Thumble's wife in truth been a cousin, Mrs Proudie would surely have provided for him during the many

years in which the diocese had been in her hands. No such provision had been made, and Mr Thumble, who

had not been living in the diocese for three years, had received nothing else from the bishop than such chance

employment as this which he was not to undertake at Hogglestock. He was a humble, mildvoiced man,

when within the palace precincts, and had so far succeeded in making his way among his brethren in the

cathedral city as to be employed not unfrequently for absent minor canons in chanting the weekday services,

being remunerated for his work at the rate of about two shillings and sixpence a service.

The bishop handed the letter to his wife, observing in an offhand kind of way that she might as well see

what he said. 'Of course I shall read it,' said Mrs Proudie. And the bishop winced, visibly, because Mr

Thumble was present. 'Quite right,' said Mrs Proudie, 'quite right to let him know that you knew he had been

'Never mind, Mr Thumble,' said Mrs Proudie. 'Never mind that at present.' Then she continued to read the

letter. 'What's this? Confession! That must come out, bishop. It will never do that you should recommend

'My lord has not meant auricular confession,' suggested Mr Thumble. Then Mrs Proudie turned around and

looked at Mr Thumble, and Mr Thumble nearly sank amidst the tables and chairs. 'I beg your pardon, Mrs

'The word must come out, bishop,' repeated Mrs Proudie. 'There should be no stumbling blocks prepared for

'Now, Mr Thumble,' said the lady, as she gave the letter to her satellite, 'the bishop and I wish you to be at

Hogglestock early tomorrow. You should there not later than ten, certainly.' Then she paused until Mr

Thumble had given the required promise. 'And we request that you will be very firm in the mission which is

confided to you, a mission which, as of course, you see, is of a very delicate and important nature. You must

'The bishop and I both feel that this most unfortunate man must not under any circumstances be allowed to

perform the services of the Church while this charge is hanging over hima charge as to the truth of which

'The bishop and I therefore are most anxious that you should make Mr Crawley understand at onceat once,'

and the lady, as she spoke, lifted up her hand with an eloquent violence which had its effect on Mr Thumble,

'that he is inhibited,'the bishop shook in his shoes'inhibited from the performance of any of his sacred

Matters went very badly indeed in the parsonage at Hogglestock. On the Friday morning, the morning of the

day after his committal, Mr Crawley got up very early, long before the daylight, and dressing himself in the

dark, groped his way downstairs. His wife having vainly striven to persuade him to remain where he was,

followed him into the cold room below with a lighted candle. She found him standing with his hat on and

with his old cloak, as though he were prepared to go out. 'Why do you do this?' she said. 'You will make

yourself ill with the cold and the night air; and then you, and I too, will be worse than we now are.'

'We cannot be worse. You cannot be worse, and for me it does not signify. Let it pass.'

'I will not let you pass, Josiah. Be a man and bear it. Ask God for strength, instead of seeking it in an

'Yes, love;indulgence. It is indulgence. You will allow your mind to dwell on nothing for a moment but

'Sometimes I think you are. When you accuse me of selfindulgence you are against meme, who for

myself have desired nothing but to be allowed to do my duty, and to have bread enough to keep me alive, and

'Is it not selfindulgence, this giving way to grief? Who would know so well as you how to teach the lesson

of endurance to others? Come, love. Lay down your hat. It cannot be fitting that you should go out into the

For a moment he hesitated, but as she raised her hand to take his cloak from him he drew back from her, and

would not permit it. 'I shall find those up whom I want to see,' he said. 'I must visit my flock, and I dare not

'Would they not? The very children in the school whisper at me. Let me pass, I say. It has not yet come to

that, that I should be stopped in my egress and ingress. They havebailed me; and while their bail lasts, I

'Oh, Josiah, what words to me! Have I ever stopped your liberty? Would I not give my life to secure it?'

'Stay with her, then. Why should you go about the parish?' She still held him by the cloak, and looked

anxiously up into his face. 'Woman,' he said, raising his voice, 'what is that you dread? I command you to tell

me what it is you fear?' He had now taken hold of her by the shoulder, slightly thrusting her from him, so that

he might see her face, by the dim light of the single candle. 'Speak, I say. What is it that you think I shall do?'

'Dearest, I know that you will be better at home, better with me, than you can be on such a morning as this

'And is that all?' He looked hard at her, while she returned his gaze with beseeching loving eyes. 'It there

She paused for a moment before she replied. She had never lied to him. She could not lie to him. 'I wish you

'I know your heart well, but I want to know your mind. Why would you persuade me not to go out among my

'Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in the dark lanes, in the mud and wet, thinking of your sorrow.

You will brood over it till you will lose your senses through the intensity of your grief. You will stand out in

the cold air, forgetful of everything around you, till your limbs will be numbed, and your blood chilled'

'And even then I will bear my burden till the Lord in His mercy shall see fit to relieve me. Even then I will

endure, though a bare bodkin or leaf of hemlock would put an end to it. Let me pass on; you need fear

She did let him pass without another word, and he went out of the house, shutting the door after him

noiselessly, and closing the wicket gate of the garden. For a while she sat herself down on the nearest chair,

and tried to make up her mind how she might best treat him in his present state of mind. As regarded the

present morning her heart was at ease. She new that he would do now nothing of that which she had

apprehended. She could trust him not to be false in his word to her, though she could not before have trusted

him not to commit so much heavier a sin. If he would really employ himself from morning till night among

the poor, he would be better sohis trouble would be easier of endurancethan with any other employment

which he could adopt. What she most dreaded was that he should sit idle over the fire and do nothing. When

he was so seated she could read his mind, as though it was open to her as a book. She had been quite right

when she had accused him of overindulgence in his grief. He did give way to it till it became a luxury to

hima luxury which she would not have had the heart to deny him, had she not felt it to be of all luxuries

the most pernicious. During these long hours, in which he would sit speechless, doing nothing, he was telling

himself from minute to minute that of all God's creatures, he was the most heavily afflicted, and was revelling

in the sense of the injustice done to him. He was recalling all the facts of life, his education, which had been

costly, and, as regarded knowledge, successful; his vocation to the Church, when in his youth he had

determined to devote himself to the service of his Saviour, disregarding promotion or the favour of men; the

short, sweet days of his early love, in which he had devoted himself againthinking nothing of self, but

everything of her; his diligent working, in which he had ever done his very utmost for the parish in which he

was placed, and always his best for the poorest; the success of other men who had been his compeers, and, as

he too often told himself, intellectually his inferiors; then of his children, who had been carried off from his

love to the churchyardover whose graves he himself had stood, reading out the pathetic words of the

funeral service with unswerving voice and a bleeding heart; and then of his children still living, who loved

their mother so much better than they loved him. And he would recall the circumstances of their

povertyhow he had been driven to accept alms, to fly from creditors, to hide himself, to see his chairs and

tables seized before the eyes of those over whom he had been set as their spiritual pastor. And in it all, I

think, there was nothing so bitter to the man as the derogation from the spiritual grandeur of his position as

priest among men, which came as one necessary result from his poverty. St Paul could go forth without

money in his purse or shoes on his feet or two suits to his back, and his poverty never stood in the way of his

preaching, or hindered the veneration of the faithful. St Paul, indeed, was called upon to bear stripes, was

flung into prison, encountered terrible dangers. But Mr Crawleyso he told himselfcould have

encountered all that without flinching. The stripes and scorn of the unfaithful would have been nothing to

him, if only the faithful would have believed in him, poor as he was, as they would have believed in him had

he been rich! Even they whom he had most loved and treated him almost with derision, because he was now

different from them. Dean Arabin had laughed at him because he had persisted in walking ten miles through

the mud instead of being conveyed in the dean's carriage; and yet, after that, he had been driven to accept the

dean's charity! No one respected him. No one! His very wife thought that he was a lunatic. And now he had

been publicly branded as a thief; and in all likelihood would end his days in a gaol! Such were always his

thoughts as he sat idle, silent, moody, over the fire; and his wife knew well their currents. It would certainly

be better that he should drive himself to some employment, if any employment could be found possible for

When she had been alone for a few minutes, Mrs Crawley got up from her chair, and going into the kitchen,

lighted the fire there, and put the kettle over it, and began to prepare such breakfast for her husband as the

means in the house afforded. Then she called the sleeping servantgirl, who was little more than a child, and

'He has gone out to visit some of the brickmakers, before they go to their work. It is better for him to be

'Yes, dear, it is still dark. Sleep again for a while, and I will sleep too. I think Grace will be here tonight, and

Mr Crawley went forth and made his way with rapid steps to a portion of this parish nearly two miles from

his house, through which was carried a canal, affording water communication in some intricate way both to

London and Bristol. And on the brink of this canal there had sprung up a colony of brickmakers, the nature of

the earth in those parts combining with the canal to make brickmaking a suitable trade. The workmen there

assembled were not, for the most part, nativeborn Hogglestockians, or folk descended from Hogglestockian

parents. They had come thither from unknown regions, as labourers of that class do come when they are

needed. Some young men from that and neighbouring parishes had joined themselves to the colony, allured

by wages, and disregarding the menaces of the neighbouring farmers; but they were all in appearance and

manners nearer akin to the race of navvies than to ordinary rural labourers. They had a bad name in the

country; but it may be that their name was worse than their deserts. The farmers hated them, and

consequently they hated the farmers. They had a beershop, and a grocer's shop, and a huxter's shop for their

own accommodation, and were consequently vilified by the small oldestablished tradesmen around them.

They got drunk occasionally, but I doubt whether they drank more than did the farmers themselves on

marketday. They fought among themselves sometimes, but they forgave each other freely, and seemed to

have no objection to black eyes. I fear that they were not always good to their wives, nor were their wives

always good to them; but it should be remembered that among the poor, especially when they live in clusters,

such misfortunes cannot be hidden as they may amidst the decent belongings of more wealthy people. That

they worked very hard was certain; and it was certain also that very few of their number ever came upon the

poor rates. What became of the old brickmakers no one knew. Who ever sees a wornout navvy?

Mr Crawley, ever since first coming into Hogglestock, had been very busy among these brickmakers, and by

no means without success. Indeed the farmers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakers had so

crowded the parish church, as to leave but scant room for decent people. 'Doo they folk pay tithes? That's

what I want'un to tell me?' argued one farmernot altogether unnaturally, believing as he did that Mr

Crawley was paid by tithes out of his own pocket. But Mr Crawley had done his best to make the brickmaker

welcome at the church, scandalising the farmers by causing them to sit or stand in any portion of the church

which was hitherto unappropriated. He had been constant in his personal visits to them, and had felt himself

It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding evening had given way to frost, and the air, though sharp,

was dry. The ground under the feet was crisp, having felt the wind and frost, and was no longer clogged with

mud. In his present state of mind the walk was good for our poor pastor, and exhilarated him; but still, as he

went, he thought always of his injuries. His own wife believed that he was about to commit suicide, and for

so believing he was very angry with her; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of making away with himself had

flitted through his own mind a dozen times. Not from his own wife could he get real sympathy. He would see

'Are you here, Dan?' he said, knocking at the door of a cottage which stood alone, close to the towing path of

the canal, and close also to a forlorn corner of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brickfield. It was now

just past six o'clock, and the men would be rising, as in midwinter they commenced their work at seven. The

cottage was an unalluring, straight brickbuilt tenement, seeming as though intended to be one of a row

which had never progressed beyond Number One. A voice answered from the interior, inquiring who was the

visitor, to which Mr Crawley replied by giving his name. Then the key was turned in the lock, and Dan

Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with a candle in his hand. He had been engaged in lighting the fire, with a

view to his own breakfast. 'Where is your wife, Dan?' asked Mr Crawley. The man answered by pointing with

a short poker, which he held in his hand, to the bed, which was halfscreened from the room by a ragged

curtain, which hung from the ceiling halfway down to the floor. 'And are the Darvels here?' asked Mr

Crawley. Then Morris, again using the poker, pointed upwards, showing that the Darvels were still in their

'You're early out, Muster Crawley,' said Morris, and then he went on with his fire. 'Drat the sticks, if they

bean't as wet as the old 'un hisself. Get up, old woman, and do you do it, for I can't. They wun't kindle for me,

nohow.' But the old woman, having well noted the presence of Mr Crawley, thought it better to remain where

Mr Crawley sat himself down by the obstinate fire, and began to arrange the sticks. 'Dan, Dan,' said a voice

from the bed, 'sure you wouldn't let his reverence trouble himself with the fire.'

'How be I to keep him from it, if he chooses? I didn't ax him.' Then Morris stood by and watched, and after a

'How could it burn when you had not given the small spark a current of air to help it?' said Mr Crawley.

The husband said no word in acknowledgement of this compliment, nor did he thank Mr Crawley for what he

had done, nor appear as though he intended to take any notice of him. He was going on with his work when

'And I footed it there, and that's sixteen. And I paid oneand sixpence for beer and grub;s'help me I did.'

'Dan!' said a voice from the bed, rebuking him for the impropriety of his language.

'Well; I beg pardon, but I did. And they guv'me two bob;just two plain shillings by'

'And I'd 've arned threeandsix here at brickmaking easy; that's what I wuld. How's a poor man to live that

way? They'll not cotch me at Barchester 'Sizes at that price; they may be sure of that. Look therethat's what

I've got for my day.' And he put his hand into his breechespocket and fetched out a sixpence. 'How's a man

'Well, what did I say? Hold your jaw, will you, and not be halloaing at me that way? I know what I am saying

'We knows that,' cried the woman from the bed. 'We is sure of that, your reverence.'

'Sixpence!' said the man, scornfully. 'If they'd have guv' me nothing at all but the run of my teeth at the

Then there was a pause. 'And what have they given to me?' said Mr Crawley, when the man's illhumour

about his sixpence had so far subsided as to allow of his busying himself again about the premises.

'Yes, indeed;yes, indeed,' said the woman. 'Yes, yes, we feel that; we do indeed, Mr Crawley.'

'I tell you what, sir; for another sixpence I'd have sworn you'd never guv' me the paper at all; and so I will

'And why shouldn't I? They hain't got brains enough among them to winny the truth from the liesnot

among the lot of 'em. I'll swear afore the judge that you didn't give it me at all, if that'll do any good.'

'Man, do you think I would have you perjure yourself, even if that would do me a service? And do you think

'Faix, among them chaps it don't do to tell them too much of the truth. Look at that!' And he brought out the

sixpence again from his breechespocket. 'And look at your reverence. Only that they've let you out for a

'It's been along of that chap Soames,' said the woman. 'The lord would've paid the money out of his own

'If they think that I've been a thief, they've done right,' repeated Mr Crawley. 'But how can they think so?

'For the matter o' that, if a man ain't paid for his work by them as his employers, he must pay hisself. Them's

my notions. Look at that!' Whereupon he again pulled out the sixpence, and held it forth in the palm of his

'You believe, then,' said Mr Crawley, speaking very slowly, 'that I did steal the money. Speak out, Dan; I

shall not be angry. As you go you are an honest men, and I want to know what such of you think about it.'

'He don't think nothing of the kind,' said the woman, almost getting out of bed in her energy. 'If he' thought

the like o' that in his head, I'd read 'un such a lesson he'd never think again the longest day he had to live.'

'Speak out, Dan,' said the clergyman, not attending to the woman. 'You can understand that no good can come

of lie.' Dan Morris scratched his head. 'Speak out, man, when I tell you,' said Crawley.

'Say you know his reverence is as innocent as the babe as isn't born,' said the woman.

'They do say, among 'em,' said Dan, 'that you picked it up, and then got woolgathering in your head till you

didn't rightly know where it come from.' Then he paused. 'And after a bit you guv' it me to get the money.

'And I'm a poor manthe poorest in all Hogglestock; and, therefore, of course, it is stealing. Of course I am

a thief. Yes; of course I am a thief. When the world believe the worst of the poor?' Having so spoken, Mr

Crawley rose from his chair and hurried out of the cottage, waiting for no further reply from Dan Morris or

his wife. And as he made his way slowly home, not going there by the direct road, but by a long circuit, he

told himself there could be no sympathy for him anywhere. Even Dan Morris, the brickmaker, thought that he

'And am I a thief?' he said to himself, standing in the middle of the road, with his hands up to his forehead.

It was nearly nine before Mr Crawley got back to his house, and found his wife and daughter waiting

breakfast for him. 'I should not wonder if Grace were over here today,' said Mrs Crawley. 'She'd better remain

where she is,' said he. After this the meal passed almost without a word. When it was over, Jane, at a sign

from her mother, went up to her father and asked him whether she should read with him. 'Not now,' he said,

'not just now. I must rest my brain before it will be fit for any work.' Then he got into the chair over the fire,

But the day was not far advanced, when there came a visitor who disturbed him, and by disturbing him did

him a real service. Just at ten there arrived at the little gate before the house a man on a pony, whom Jane

espied, standing there by the pony's head and looking about for someone to relieve him of the charge of the

steed. This was Mr Thumble, who had ridden over to Hogglestock on a poor spavined brute belonging to the

bishop's stable, and which had once been the bishop's cob. Now it was the vehicle by which Mrs Proudie's

episcopal messages were sent backwards and forwards through a twelvemiles ride round Barchester; and so

many were the lady's requirements, that the poor animal by no means ate the hay of idleness. Mr Thumble

had suggested to Mrs Proudie, after their interview with the bishop and the giving up of the letter to the

clerical messenger's charge, that before hiring a gig from the Dragon of Wantley, he should be glad to

knowlooking as he always did to 'Mary Anne and the children'whence the price of the gig was to be

returned to him. Mrs Proudie had frowned at himnot with all they austerity of frowning which she could

use when really angered, but simply with a frown which gave her some little time for thought, and would

enable her to continue to rebuke if, after thinking, she should find that rebuke was needed. But mature

consideration showed her that Mr Thumble's caution was not without reason. Were the bishop energeticor

even the bishop's managing chaplain as energetic as he should be, Mr Crawley might, as Mrs Proudie felt

assured, be made in some way to pay for a conveyance for Mr Thumble. But the energy was lacking, and the

price of the gig, if the gig were ordered, would certainly fall ultimately on the bishop's shoulders. This was

very sad. Mrs Proudie had often grieved over the necessary expenditure of episcopal surveillance, and had

been heard to declare her opinion that a liberal allowance for secret service should be made in every diocese.

What better could the Ecclesiastical Commission do with all those rich revenues which they had stolen from

the bishops? But there was no such liberal allowance at present, and therefore, Mrs Proudie, after having

frowned at Mr Thumble for some seconds, desired him to take the grey cob. Now, Mr Thumble had ridden

the grey cob before, and would have much preferred a gig. But even the grey cob was better than a gig at his

'Mamma, there's a man at the gate waiting to come in,' said Jane. 'I think he's a clergyman.'

Mr Crawley immediately raised his head, though he did not at once leave his chair. Mrs Crawley went to the

window, and recognised the reverend visitor. 'My dear, it is that Mr Thumble, who is so much with the

'Nay, my dear; he will tell you that himself.' But Mrs Crawley, though she answered him with a voice

intended to be cheerful, greatly feared the coming messenger from the palace. She perceived at once that the

bishop was about to interfere with her husband in consequence of that which the magistrates had done

'Tell him to tie it to the rail,' said Mr Crawley. 'If he has expected to find menials here, as he has them at the

palace, he will be wrong. If he wants to come in here, let him tie the beast to the rail.' So Jane went out and

sent a message to Mr Thumble by the girl, and Mr Thumble did tie the pony to the rail, and followed the girl

into the house. Jane in the meantime had retired out by the back door to the school but Mrs Crawley kept her

ground. She kept her ground although she believed that her husband would have preferred to have the field to

himself. As Mr Thumble did not at once enter the room, Mr Crawley stalked to the door, and stood with it

open in his hand. Though he knew Mr Thumble's person, he was not acquainted with him, and therefore

simply bowed to the visitor, bowing more than once or twice with a cold courtesy, which did not put Mr

Thumble altogether at his ease. 'My name is Mr Thumble,' said the visitor'the Reverend Caleb Thumble,'

and he held the bishop's letter in his hand. Mr Crawley seemed to take no notice of the letter, but motioned

'Yes, madamfrom the palace.' Mr Thumble, though a humble man in positions in which he felt humility

would become hima humble man to his betters, as he himself would have expressed it had still about

him something of that pride which naturally belonged to those clergymen who were closely attached to the

palace at Barchester. Had he been sent on a message to Plumstead could any such message from

Barchester palace have been possiblehe would have been properly humble in his demeanour to the

archdeacon, or to Mrs Grantly had he been admitted to the august presence of that lady; but he was aware that

humility would not become him on this present mission; he had been expressly ordered to be firm by Mrs

Proudie, and firm he meant to be; and therefore, in communicating to Mrs Crawley the fact that he had come

from the palace, he did load the tone of his voice with something of the dignity which Mr Crawley might

'And what does the "palace" want with me?' said Mr Crawley. Mrs Crawley knew at once there was to be a

battle. Nay, the battle had begun. Nor was she altogether sorry; for though she could not trust her husband to

sit alone all day in his armchair over the fire, she could trust him to carry on a disputation with any other

clergyman on any subject whatever. 'What does the palace want with me?' And as Mr Crawley asked the

question he stood erect, and looked Mr Thumble full in the face. Mr Thumble called to mind the fact, that Mr

Crawley was a very poor man indeedso poor that he owed money all round the country to butchers and

bakers, and the other fact that he, Mr Thumble himself, did not owe any money to anyone, his wife luckily

having a little income of her own; and, strengthened by these remembrances, he endeavoured to bear Mr

'Of course, Mr Crawley, you are aware that this unfortunate affair at Silverbridge'

'I am not prepared to discuss the unfortunate affair at Silverbridge with a stranger. If you are the bearer of any

'I have brought a letter,' said Mr Thumble. Then Mr Crawley stretched out his hand without a word, and

taking the letter with him to the window, read it very slowly. When he had made himself master of its

contents, he refolded the letter, placed it again in the envelope, and returned to the spot where Mr Thumble

was standing. 'I will answer the bishop's letter,' he said; 'I will answer it of course, as it is fitting that I should

do so. Shall I ask you to wait for my reply, or shall I send it by course of post?'

'You will not undertake the duty, Mr Thumble. You need not trouble yourself, for I shall not surrender my

'I care nothing for the bishop in this matter.' So much he spoke in anger, and then he corrected himself. 'I

crave the bishop's pardon, and yours as his messenger, if in the heat occasioned by my strong feelings I have

said aught which may savour of irreverence towards his lordship's office. I respect his lordship's high position

as bishop of this diocese, and I bow to his commands in all things lawful. But I must not bow to him in things

unlawful, nor must I abandon my duty before God at his bidding, unless his bidding be given in accordance

with the canons of the Church and the laws of the land. It will be my duty, on the coming Sunday, to lead the

prayers of my people in the church of my parish, and to preach to them from my pulpit; and that my duty,

with God's assistance, I will perform. Nor will I allow any clergyman to interfere with me in the performance

of those sacred officesno, not though the bishop himself should be present with the object of enforcing his

illegal command.' Mr Crawley spoke these words without hesitation, even with eloquence, standing upright,

and with something of a noble anger gleaming over his poor wan face; and, I think, that while speaking them,

Mr Thumble listened to him patiently, standing with one foot a little in advance of the other, with one hand

folded over the other, with his head rather on one side, and with his eyes fixed on the corner where the wall

and ceiling joined each other. He had been told to be firm, and he was considering how he might best display

firmness. He thought that he remembered some story of two parsons fighting for one pulpit, and he thought

also that he should not himself like to incur the scandal of such a proceeding in the diocese. As to the law in

the matter he knew nothing himself; but he presumed that a bishop would probably know the letter better than

a perpetual curate. That Mrs Proudie was intemperate and imperious, he was aware. Had the message come

from her alone, he might have felt that even for her sake he had better give way. But as the despotic

arrogance of the lady in this case had been backed by the timid presence and hesitating words of her lord, Mr

Thumble thought that he must have the law on his side. 'I think you will find, Mr Crawley,' said he, 'that the

bishop's inhibition is strictly legal.' He had picked up the powerful word from Mrs Proudie and flattered

'It is illegal,' said Mr Crawley, speaking somewhat louder than before, 'and will be absolutely futile. As you

pleaded to me that you yourself and your personal convenience were concerned in this matter, I have made

known my intentions to you, which otherwise I should have made known only to the bishop. If you please,

'The bishop has written to me, sire, and I will make known my intention to the bishop by a written answer. As

you have been the bearer of the bishop's letter to me, I am bound to ask whether I shall be indebted to you for

carrying back my reply, or whether I shall send it by course of post?' Mr Thumble considered for a moment,

and then made up his mind that he had better wait, and carry back the epistle. This was Friday, and the letter

could not be delivered by post till the Saturday morning. Mrs Proudie might be angry with him if he should

be the cause of loss of time. He did not, however, at all like waiting, having perceived that Mr Crawley,

'I think,' he said, 'that I may, perhaps, best further the object which we must all have in view, that namely of

providing properly for the Sunday services in the church of Hogglestock, by taking your reply personally to

'That provision is my care and need trouble no one else,' said Mr Crawley, in a loud voice. Then, before

seating himself at his old desk, he stood awhile, pondering with his back turned to his visitor. 'I have to ask

your pardon, sir,' said he, looking round for a moment, 'because by the reason of the extreme poverty of this

house, my wife is unable to offer you any hospitality which is especially due from one clergyman to another.'

'If you will allow me, sir, I would prefer that it should be mentioned.' Then he seated himself, and

Mr Thumble felt himself to be awkwardly placed. Had there been no third person in the room he could have

sat down in Mr Crawley's armchair, and waited patiently till the letter should be finished. But Mrs Crawley

was there, and of course he was bound to speak to her. In what strain should he do so? Even he, as little as he

was given to indulge in sentiment, had been touched by the man's appeal to his own poverty, and he felt,

moreover, that Mrs Crawley must have been deeply moved by her husband's position with reference to the

bishop's order. It was quite out of the question that he should speak of that, as Mr Crawley would, he was

well aware, would immediately turn upon him. At last he thought of a subject, and spoke with a voice

intended to be pleasant. 'That was the schoolhouse I passed, probably, as I came here?' Mrs Crawley told

him that it was the schoolhouse. 'Ah, yes, I thought so. Have you a certified teacher there?' Mrs Crawley

explained that no Government aid had ever reached Hogglestock. Besides themselves, they had only a young

'II am the certified teacher,' said Mr Crawley, turning round upon him from his chair.

'Oh, ah, yes,' said Mr Thumble; and after that Mr Thumble asked no more questions about the Hogglestock

school. Soon afterwards Mrs Crawley left the room, seeing the difficulty under which Mr Thumble was

labouring, and feeling sure that her presence would not now be necessary. Mr Crawley's letter was written

quickly, though every now and then he would sit for a moment with his pen poised in the air, searching his

memory for a word. But the words came to him easily, and before an hour was over he had handed his letter

'I have received the letter of yesterday's date which your lordship has done me the honour of sending by the

hands of the Reverend Mr Thumble, and I avail myself of that gentleman's kindness to return to you an

answer by the same means, moved this to use his patience chiefly by the consideration that in this way my

reply to your lordship's injunctions may be in your hands with less delay than would attend the course of the

'It is with deep regret that I feel myself constrained to inform your lordship that I cannot obey the command

which you have laid upon me with reference to the services of my church in this parish. I cannot permit Mr

Thumble, or any other delegate from your lordship, to usurp my place in the pulpit. I would not have you

think, if I can possibly dispel such thoughts from your mind, that I disregard your high office, or that I am

deficient in that respectful obedience to the bishop set over me, which is due to the authority of the Crown as

the head of the church in these realms; but in this, as in all questions of obedience, he who is required to obey

must examine the extent of the authority exercised by him who demands obedience. Your lordship might

possibly call upon me, using your voice as bishop of the diocese, to abandon altogether the freehold rights

which are now mine in this perpetual curacy. The judge of assize, before whom I shall soon stand for my

trial, might command me to retire to prison without a verdict given by a jury. The magistrates who committed

me so lately as yesterday, upon whose decision in that respect your lordship has taken action against me so

quickly, might have equally strained their authority. But in no case, in this land, is he that is subject bound to

obey, further than where the law gives authority and exacts obedience. It is not in the power of the Crown

itself to inhibit me from the performance of my ordinary duties in this parish by any such missive as that sent

to me by your lordship. If your lordship think right to stop my mouth as a clergyman in your diocese, you

must proceed to do so in an ecclesiastical court in accordance with the laws, and will succeed in your object,

of fail, in accordance with the evidences as to the ministerial fitness or unfitness, which may be produced

'I will allow that much attention is due from a clergyman to pastoral advice given to him by his bishop. On

that head I must first express to your lordship my full understanding that your letter has not been intended to

convey advice, but an order;an inhibition, as your messenger, the Reverend Mr Thumble, has expressed it.

There might be a case certainly in which I should submit myself to counsel, though I should resist command.

No counsel, however, has been givenexcept indeed that I should receive your messenger in a proper spirit,

which I hope I have done. No other advice has been given me, and therefore there is now no such case as that

I have imagined. But in this matter, my lord, I could not have accepted advice from a living man, no, not

though the hands of the apostles themselves had made him bishop who tendered it to me, and had set him

over me for my guidance. I am in a terrible strait. Trouble, and sorrow, and danger are upon me and mine. It

may well be, as your lordship says, that the bitter waters of the present hour may pass over my head and

destroy me. I thank your lordship for telling me whither I am to look for assistance. Truly I know not whether

there is any to be found for me on earth. But the deeper my troubles, the greater my sorrow, the more

pressing any danger, the stronger is my need that I should carry myself in these days with that outward

respect of self which will teach those around me to know that, let who will condemn me, I have not

condemned myself. Were I to abandon my pulpit, unless forced to do so by legal means, I should in doing so

be putting a plea of guilty against myself upon the record. This, my lord, I will not do.

When he had finished writing his letter he read it over slowly, and then handed it to Mr Thumble. The act of

writing, and the current of the thoughts through his brain, and the feeling that in every word written he was

getting the better of the bishopall this joined to a certain manly delight in warfare against authority, lighted

up the man's face and gave to his eyes an expression which had been long wanting to them. His wife at that

moment came into the room and he looked at her with an air of triumph as he handed the letter to Mr

Thumble. 'If you will give that to his lordship with an assurance of my duty to his lordship in all things

proper, I will thank you kindly, craving your pardon for the great delay to which you have been subjected.'

'It has been much; but you as a clergyman will feel that it has been incumbent upon me to speak my mind

'Oh, yes; of course.' Mr Crawley was standing up, as also was Mrs Crawley. It was evident to Mr Thumble

that they both expected that he should go. But he had been especially enjoined to be firm, and he doubted

whether hitherto he had been firm enough. As far as this morning's work had as yet gone, it seemed to him

that Mr Crawley had had the play to himself, and that he, Mr Thumble, had not had his innings. He, from the

palace, had been, as it were, cowed by this man, who had been forced to plead his own poverty. It was

certainly incumbent upon him, before he went, to speak up, not only for the bishop, but for himself also. 'Mr

'Nay,' said Mr Crawley, smiling, 'you have indeed been patient, and I thank you; but my words have been

Mr Crawley, still smiling, still having in his eyes the unwonted triumph which had lighted them up, paused a

moment, and then answered him. 'Reverend sir, you must excuse me if I say nonot on this subject.'

'No; not on this matter, which is very private to me. What should you think if I went into your house and

'Though ten bishops sent mea council of archbishops if you will!' Mr Thumble started back, appalled by

the energy of the words used to him. 'Shall a man have nothing of his own;no sorrow in his heart, no care

in his family, no thought in his breast so private and special to him, but that, if he happen to be a clergyman,

'I intended not to hint anything personally objectionable to yourself. I will regard you as one of the angels of

the church.' Mr Thumble, when he heard this, began to be sure that Mr Crawley was mad; he knew of no

angels that could ride about the Barsetshire lanes on grey ponies. 'And as much as I respect you; but I cannot

'And his lordship, should he so decide, will arm me with such power on my next coming as will enable me to

'His lordship will abide by the law, as will you also.' In speaking these last words he stood with the door in

his hand, and Mr Thumble, not knowing how to increase or even maintain his firmness, thought it best to pass

'The poor man thought that you were laughing at him when you called him an angel of the church,' said Mrs

'Had I told him he was simply a messenger, he would have taken it worse;poor fool! When they have rid

themselves of me they may put him here, in my church; but not yetnot yet. Where is Jane? Tell her that I

am ready to commence the Seven against Thebes with her.' Then Jane was immediately sent for out of the

school, and the Seven against Thebes was commenced with great energy. Often during the next hour and a

half Mrs Crawley from the kitchen would hear him reading out, or rather saying by rote, with sonorous

rolling voice, great passages from some chorus, and she was very thankful to the bishop, who had sent over to

them a message and messenger which had been so salutary in their effect upon her husband. 'In truth an angel

of the church,' she said to herself as she chopped up the onions for the muttonbroth; and ever afterwards she

Grace Crawley passed through Silverbridge on her way to Allington on the Monday, and on the Tuesday

morning Major Grantly received a very short note from Miss Prettyman, telling him that she had done so.

'Dear Sir,I think you will be very glad to learn that our friend Miss Crawley went from us yesterday on a

visit to her friend, Miss Dale, at Allington.Yours truly, Annabella Prettyman.' The note said no more than

that. Major Grantly was glad to get it, obtaining from it the satisfaction which a man always feels when he is

presumed to be concerned in the affairs of the lady with whom he is in love. And he regarded Miss Prettyman

with favourable eyes as a discreet and friendly woman. Nevertheless, he was not altogether happy. The very

fact that Miss Prettyman should write to him on such a subject made him feel that he was bound to Grace

Crawley. He knew enough of himself to be sure that he could not give her up without making himself

miserable. And yet, as regarded her father, things were going from bad to worse. Everybody now said that the

evidence was so strong against Mr Crawley as to leave hardly any doubt of his guilt. Even the ladies in

Silverbridge were beginning to give up his cause, acknowledging that the money could not have come

rightfully into his hands, and excusing him on the plea of partial insanity. 'He has picked it up and put it by

for months, and then thought that it was his own . . .' The ladies at Silverbridge could find nothing better to

say for him than that; and when young Mr Walker remarked that such little mistakes were the customary

causes of men being taken to prison, the ladies of Silverbridge did not know how to answer him. It had come

to be their opinion that Mr Crawley was affected with a partial lunacy, which ought to be forgiven in one to

whom the world had been so cruel; and when young Mr Walker endeavoured to explain to them that a man

must be sane altogether or mad altogether, and that Mr Crawley must, if sane, be locked up as a thief, and if

mad, locked up as a madman, they sighed, and were convinced that until the world should have been

improved by a new infusion of romance, and a stronger feeling of justice, Mr John Walker was right.

And the result of this general opinion made its way to Major Grantly, and made its way, also, to the

archdeacon at Plumstead. As to the major, in giving him his due, it must be explained that the more certain he

became of the father's guilt, the more certain also he became of the daughter's merits. It was very hard. The

whole thing was cruelly hard. It was cruelly hard upon him that he should be brought into this trouble, and be

forced to take upon himself the armour of a knighterrant for the redress of the wrong on the part of the

young lady. But when alone in his house, or with his child, he declared to himself that he would do so. It

might well be that he could not live in Barsetshire after he had married Mr Crawley's daughter. He had

inherited from his father enough of that longing for ascendancy among those around him to make him feel

that in such circumstances he would be wretched. But he would be made more wretched by the

selfknowledge that he had behaved badly to the girl he loved; and the world beyond Barsetshire was open to

him. He would take her with him to Canada, to New Zealand, or to some other faraway country, and there

begin his life again. Should his father choose to punish him for so doing by disinheriting him, they would be

poor enough; but, in his present frame of mind, the major was able to regard such poverty as honourable and

He had been out shooting all day at Chaldicotes, with Dr Thorne and a party who were staying in the house

there, and had been talking about Mr Crawley, first with one man and then with another. Lord Lufton had

been there, and young Gresham from Greshambury, and Mr Robarts, the clergyman, and news had come

among them of the attempt made by the bishop to stop Mr Crawley from preaching. Mr Robarts had been of

the opinion that Mr Crawley should have given way; and Lord Lufton, who shared his mother's intense

dislike of everything that came from the palace, had sworn that he was right to resist. The sympathy of the

whole party had been with Mr Crawley; but they had all agreed that he had stolen the money.

'And what on earth will become of his children,' said the doctor. 'Think of the fate of that pretty girl; for she is

a very pretty girl. It will be the ruin of her. No man will allow himself to fall in love with her when her father

'We must do something for the whole family,' said the lord. 'I say, Thorne, you haven't half the game her that

'Haven't I?' said the doctor. 'You see, Sowerby had been at it all his days, and never did anything else. I only

The major had intended to stay and dine at Chaldicotes, but when he heard what was said about Grace, his

heart became sad, and he made some excuse as to the child, and returned home. Dr Thorne had declared that

no man could allow himself to fall in love with her. But what if a man had fallen in love with her beforehand?

What if a man had not only fallen in love, but spoken of his love? Had he been alone with the doctor, he

would, I think, have told him the whole of his trouble; for in all the county there was no man whom he would

sooner have trusted with his secret. This Dr Thorne was known far and wide for his soft heart, his open hand,

and his wellsustained indifference to the world's opinions on most of those social matters with which the

world meddles; and therefore the words which he had spoken had more weight with Major Grantly than they

would have had from other lips. As he drove home he almost made up his mind that he would consult Dr

Thorne upon the matter. There were many younger men with whom he was very intimateFrank Gresham,

for instance, and Lord Lufton himself; but this was an affair which he hardly knew who to discuss with a

young man. To Dr Thorne he thought that he could bring himself to tell the whole story.

In the evening there came to him a message from Plumstead, with a letter from his father and some present

for the child. He knew at once that the present had been thus sent as an excuse for the letter. His father might

have written by the post, or course; but that would have given to his letter a certain air and tone which he had

not wished it to bear. After some message from the major's mother, and some allusion to Edith, the

'I fear it is all up with that unfortunate man at Hogglestock,' he said. 'From what I hear of the evidence which

came out before the magistrates, there can, I think, be no doubt as to his guilt. Have you heard that the bishop

sent over on the following day to stop him from preaching? He did so, and sent again on the Sunday. But

Crawley would not give way, and so far I respect the man; for, as a matter of course, whatever the bishop did,

or attempted to do, he would do with an extreme bad taste, probably with gross ignorance as to his own duty

and as to the duty of the man under him. I am told that on the first day Crawley turned out of his house the

messenger sent to himsome stray clergyman whom Mrs Proudie keeps in the house; and that on Sunday

the stairs to the readingdesk and pulpit were occupied by a lot of brickmakers, among whom the parson

from Barchester did not venture to attempt to make his way, although he was fortified by the presence of one

of the cathedral vergers and by one of the palace footmen. As for the rest, I have no doubt it is all true. I pity

Crawley from my heart. Poor, unfortunate man! The general opinion seems to be that he is not in truth

responsible for what he does. As for his victory over the bishop, nothing on earth could be better.

'Your mother particularly wishes you to come over to us before the end of the week, and to bring Edith. Your

grandfather will be here, and he is becoming so infirm that he will never come to us for another Christmas.

Though the letter was full of Mr Crawley and his affairs there was not a word about Grace. This, however,

was quite natural. Major Grantly perfectly well understood his father's anxiety to carry his point without

seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject. 'My father is very clever,' he said to himself, 'very clever. But

On the next day he went into Silverbridge, intending to call on Miss Prettyman; nor was he called upon to do

so, as he never got as far as that lady's house. While walking up the High Street he saw Mrs Thorne in her

carriage, and, as a matter of course, he stopped to speak to her. He knew Mrs Thorne quite as intimately as he

did her husband, and liked her quite as well. 'Major Grantly,' she said, speaking out loud to him, half across

the street; 'I was very angry with you yesterday. Why did you not come up to dinner? We had a room ready

'Fiddlestick. Don't tell me of not being well. There was Emily breaking her heart about you.'

'To tell you the truth, I think she'll get over it. It won't be mortal with her. But do tell me, Major Grantly, what

are we to think about this poor Mr Crawley? It was so good of you to be one of his bailsmen.'

'And do you hear that he has defied the bishop? I do so like him for that. Not but what poor Mrs Proudie is

the dearest friend I have in the world, and I'm always fighting a battle with old Lady Lufton on her behalf.

'I don't quite understand what did happen at Hogglestock on the Sunday,' said the major.

'Some say he had the bishop's chaplain put under the pump. I don't believe that; but there is no doubt that

when the poor fellow tried to get into the pulpit, they took him and carried him neck and heels out of the

'Is it not sad? And that eldest girl is so nice! They tell me that she is perfectnot only in beauty, but in

manners and accomplishments. Everybody says that she talks Greek just as well as she does English, and that

'You know her, Major Grantly? Bytheby, of course you do, as you were staying with her at Framley.'

'What is to become of her? I'm going your way. You might as well get into the carriage, and I'll drive you

home. If he is sent to prisonand they say he must be sent to prisonwhat is to become of them?' Then

Major Grantly did get into the carriage, and, before he got out again, he had told Mrs Thorne the whole story

She listened to him with the closest attention; only interrupting him now and then with little words, intended

to signify her approval. He, as he told his tale, did not look her in the face, but sat with his eyes fixed upon

her muff. 'And now,' he said, glancing up at her almost for the first time as he finished his speech, 'and now,

'Marry her, of course,' said she, raising her hand aloft and bringing it down heavily upon is knee as she gave

'Oh, they never hear anything up there. They're thinking about the last pot of porter they had, or the next

'No, I don't. What has a father to do with it? You're old enough to please yourself without asking your father.

Besides, Lord bless me, the archdeacon isn't the man to bear malice. He'll storm and threaten and stop the

supplies for a month or so. Then he'll double them, and take your wife to his bosom, and kiss her, and bless

her, and all that kind of thing. We all know what parental wrath means in such cases as this.'

'As for your sister, don't talk to me about her. I don't care two straws about your sister. You must excuse me,

'And Edithof course, Mrs Thorne, I can't be blind to the fact that in many ways such a marriage would be

'No, Major Grantly; but a man does wish to marry the girl that he loves. At least, I suppose so. And what man

was ever able to give a more touching proof of his affection than you can to now? If I were you, I'd be at

Allington before twelve o'clock tomorrowI would indeed. What does it matter about the trumpery cheque?

Everybody knows it was a mistake if he did take it. And surely you would not punish her for that?'

'You go and ask her then. And I'll tell you what. If she hasn't a house of her own to be married from, she shall

be married from Chaldicotes. We'll have such a breakfast! And I'll make as much of her as if she were the

This was Mrs Thorne's advice. Before it was completed, Major Grantly had been carried half way to

Chaldicotes. When he left his impetuous friend he was too prudent to make any promise, but he declared that

'Certainly not, without your leave,' said Mrs Thorne. 'Don't you know I'm the soul of honour?'

Some kind and attentive reader may perhaps remember that Miss Grace Crawley, in a letter written by her to

her friend Miss Lily Dale, said a word or two of a certain John. 'If it can only be as John wishes it!' And the

same reader, if there be one so kind and attentive, may also remember that Miss Lily Dale had declared, in

reply, that 'about that other subject she would rather say nothing,'and then she added, 'When one thinks of

going beyond friendshipeven if one tries to do sothere are so many barriers!' From which words the

kind and attentive reader, if such a reader be in such matters intelligent as well as kind and attentive, may

We will now pay a visit to the John in questiona certain Mr John Eames, living in London, a bachelor, as

the intelligent reader will certainly have discovered, and cousin to Miss Grace Crawley. Mr John Eames at

the time of our story was a young man, some seven or eight and twenty years of age, living in London, where

he was supposed by his friends in the country to have made his mark, and to be something a little out of the

common way. But I do not know that he was very much out of the common way, except in the fact that he

had some few thousand pounds left him by an old nobleman with great affection, and who had died some two

years since. Before this, John Eames had not been a very poor man, as he filled the comfortable official

position of the private secretary to the Chief Commissioner of the IncomeTax Board, and drew a salary of

three hundred and fifty pounds a year from the resources of the country; but when, in addition to this source

of official wealth, he became known as the undoubted possessor of a hundred and twentyeight shares in one

of the most prosperous jointstock banks in the metropolis, which property had been left to him free of

legacy duty by the lamented nobleman above named, then Mr John Eames rose very high indeed as a young

man in the estimation of those who knew him, and was supposed to be something a good deal out of the

common way. His mother, who lived in the country, was obedient to his slightest word, never venturing to

impose upon him any sign of parental authority; and to his sister, Mary Eames, who lived with her mother, he

was almost a god on earth. To sisters who have nothing of their own not even some special god for their

own individual worshipgenerous, affectionate, unmarried brothers, with sufficient incomes, are gods upon

And even up in London Mr John Eames was somebody. He was so especially at his office; although, indeed,

it was remembered by many a man how raw a lad he had been when he first came there, not so very many

years ago; and how they had laughed at him and played him tricks; and how he had customarily been known

to be without a shilling for the last week before payday, during which period he would borrow sixpence

here and a shilling there with energy, from men who now felt themselves to be honoured when he smiled

upon them. Little stories of his former days would often be told of him behind his back; but they were not

told with illnature, because he was very constant in referring to the same matters himself. And it was

acknowledged by everyone at the office, that neither the friendship of the nobleman, nor that fact of the

private secretaryship, nor the acquisition of his wealth, had made him proud to his old companions or

forgetful of old friendships. To the young men, lads who had lately been appointed, he was perhaps a little

cold; but then it was only reasonable to conceive that such a one as Mr John Eames was now could not be

expected to make an intimate acquaintance with every new clerk that might be brought into the office. Since

competitive examinations had come into vogue, there was no knowing who might be introduced; and it was

understood generally through the establishmentand I may almost say by the civil service at large, so wide

was his famethat Mr Eames was very averse to the whole theory of competition. The 'Devil take the

hindmost' scheme he called it; and would then go on to explain that hindmost candidates were often the best

gentlemen, and that, in this way, the Devil got the pick of the flock. And he was respected the more for this

because it was known that on this subject he had fought some hard battles with the commissioner. The chief

commissioner was a great believer in competition, wrote papers about it, which he read aloud to various

bodies of the civil servicenot at all to their delightwhich he got to be printed here and there, and which

he sent by post all over the kingdom. More that once this chief commissioner had told his private secretary

that they must part company, unless the private secretary could see fit to alter his view, or could, at least,

keep his views to himself. But the private secretary would do neither; and, nevertheless, there he was, still

private secretary. 'It's because Johnny has got money,' said one of the young clerks, who was discussing this

singular state of things with his brethren at the office. 'When a chap has got money, he may do what he likes.

Johnny has got lots of money, you know.' The young clerk in question was by no means on intimate terms

with Mr Eames, but there had grown up in the office a way of calling him Johnny behind his back, which had

Now the entire life of Mr John Eames was pervaded by a great secret; and although he never, in those days,

alluded to the subject in conversation with any man belonging to the office, yet the secret was known by them

all. It had been historical for the last four or five years, and was now regarded as a thing of course. Mr John

Eames was in love, and his love was not happy. He was in love, and had long been in love, and the lady of his

love was not kind to him. The little history had grown to be very touching and pathetic, having received, no

doubt some embellishments from the imaginations of the gentlemen of the IncomeTax Office. It was said of

him that he had been in love from his early boyhood, that at sixteen he had been engaged, under the sanction

of the nobleman now deceased and of the young lady's parents, that contracts of betrothal had been drawn up,

and things done very unusual in private families in these days, and that then there had come a stranger into

the neighbourhood just as the young lady was beginning to reflect whether she had a heart of her own or not,

and that she had thrown her parents, and the noble lord, and the contract, and poor Johnny Eames to the

winds, and hadHere the story took different directions, as told by different men. Some said the lady had

gone off with the stranger and that there had been a clandestine marriage, which afterwards turned out to be

no marriage at all; others, that the stranger suddenly took himself off, and was no more seen by the young

lady; others that he owned at last to having another wifeand so on. The stranger was very well known to be

one Mr Crosbie, belonging to another public office; and there were circumstances in his life, only half

known, which gave rise to these various rumours. But there was one thing certain, one point as to which no

clerk in the IncomeTax Office had a doubt, one fact which had conduced much to the high position which

Mr John Eames now held in the estimation of his brother clerkshe had given this Mr Crosbie such a

thrashing that no man had ever received such treatment before and lived through it. Wonderful stories were

told about that thrashing, so that it was believed, even by the least enthusiastic in such matters, that the poor

victim had only dragged on a crippled existence since the encounter. 'For nine weeks he never said a word or

ate a mouthful,' said one young clerk to a younger clerk who was just entering the office; 'and even now he

can't speak above a whisper, and has to take all his food in pap.' It will be seen, therefore, that Mr John Eames

That he was still in love, and in love with the same lady, was known to everyone in the office. When it was

declared of him that in the way of amatory expressions he had never in his life opened his mouth to another

woman, there were those in the office who knew that to be an exaggeration. Mr Cradell, for instance, who in

his early years had been very intimate with John Eames, and who still kept up the old friendshipalthough,

being a domestic man, with wife and six young children, and living on a small income, he did not go out

much among his friendscould have told a very different story; for Mrs Cradell herself had, in the days

before Cradell had made good his claim upon her, been not unadmired by Cradell's fellowclerk. But the

constancy of Mr Eames's present love was doubted by none who knew him. It was not that he went about

with his stockings ungartered, or any of the old acknowledged signs of unrequited affection. In his manner he

was rather jovial than otherwise, and seemed to live a happy, somewhat luxurious life, well contented with

himself and the world around him. But still he had this passion within his bosom, and I am inclined to think

It might be presumed that when Miss Dale wrote to her friend Grace Crawley about going beyond friendship,

pleading that there were so many 'barriers', she had probably seen her way over most of them. But this was

not so; nor did John Eames himself at all believe that he had given the whole thing up as a bad job, because it

was the law of his life that the thing never should be abandoned as long as hope was possible. Unless Miss

Dale should become the wife of somebody else, he would always regard himself as affianced to her. He had

so declared to Miss Dale herself and to Miss Dale's mother, and to all the Dale people who had ever been

interested in the matter. And there was an old lady living in Miss Dale's neighbourhood, the sister of the lord

who had left Johnny Eames the bank shares, who always fought his battles for him, and kept a close

lookout, fully resolved that Johnny Eames should be rewarded at last. This old lady was connected with the

Dales by family ties, and therefore had the means of close observation. She was in constant correspondence

with John Eames, and never failed to acquaint him when any of the barriers were, in her judgment, giving

way. The nature of some of the barriers may possibly be made intelligible to my readers by the following

'I am much obliged to you for going to Jones's. I send stamps for two shillings and fourpence, which is what I

owe to you. It used only to be two shillings and twopence, but they say everything has got to be dearer now,

and I suppose pills as well as other things. Only think of Pritchard coming to me, and saying she wanted her

wages raised, after living with me for twenty years! I was very angry, and scolded her roundly; but as she

acknowledged, she had been wrong, and cried and begged my pardon, I did give her two guineas a year more.

'I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sunday, and upon my word I think she grows prettier every year. She

had a young friend with hera Miss Crawleywho, I believe, is the cousin I have heard you speak of.

What is this sad story about her father, the clergyman! Mind you tell me about it.

'It is quite true what I told you about the De Courcys. Old Lady De Courcy is in London, and Mr Crosbie is

going to law with her about his wife's money. He has been at it in one way or the other ever since poor Lady

Alexandrina died. I wish she had lived, with all my heart. For though I feel sure that our Lily will never

willingly see him again, yet the tidings of her death disturbed her, and set her thinking of things that were

fading from her mind. I rated her soundly, not mentioning your name, however; but she only kissed me, and

'You can come here whenever you please after the tenth of January. But if you come early January you must

go to your mother first, and come to me for the last week of your holiday. Go to Blackie's in Regent Street,

and bring me down all the colours in wool I ordered. I said you would call. And tell them at Dolland's the last

spectacles don't suit at all, and I won't keep them, they had better send me down, by you, one or two more

pairs to try. And you had better see Smithers and Smith, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, No 57 but you have been

there beforeand beg them to let me know how my poor dear brother's matters are to be settled at last. As

far as I can see I shall be dead before I shall know what income I have to spend. As to my cousins at the

manor, I never see them; and as to talking to them about business, I should not dream of it. She hasn't come

to me since she first called, and she may be quite sure I shan't go to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall

like each other apart quite as much as we should together. So let me know when you're coming, and pray

don't forget to call at Blackie's; nor yet at Dolland's, which is much more important than the wool, because

my eyes are getting so weak. But what I want you specially to remember is about Smithers and Smith. How is

a woman to live if she doesn't know how much she has got to spend? 'Believe me to be, my dear John, 'Your

Lady Julia always directed her letters for her young friend to his office, and there he received the one now

given to the reader. When he had read it he made a memorandum as to the commissions, and then threw

himself back in his armchair to think over the tidings communicated to him. All the facts stated he had

known before; that Lady De Courcy was in London, and that her soninlaw Mr Crosbie, whose wifeLady

Alexandrinahad died some twelve months since at Baden Baden, was at variance with her respecting

money which he supposed to be due to him. But there was that Lady Julia's letter that was wormwood to him.

Lily Dale was again thinking of this man, whom she had loved in the old days, and who had treated her with

monstrous perfidy! It was all very well for Lady Julia to be sure that Lily Dale would never desire to see Mr

Crosbie again; but John Eames was by no means equally certain that it would be so. 'The tidings of her death

disturbed her'! said Johnny, repeating certain words out of the old lady's letter. 'I know they disturbed me. I

wish she could have lived for ever. If he ever ventures to show himself within ten miles of Allington, I'll see

if I cannot do better than I did the last time I met him!' Then there came a knock at the door, and the private

secretary, finding himself to be somewhat annoyed by the disturbance at such a moment, bade the intruder

enter in an angry voice. 'Oh, it's you, Cradell, is it? What can I do for you?' Mr Cradell, who now entered, and

who, as before said, was an old ally of John Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the department than his

friend. In age he looked much older, and he had left with him none of that appearance of the gloss of youth

which will stick for many years to men who are fortunate in their world affairs. Indeed it may be said that Mr

Cradell was almost shabby in outward appearance, and his brow seemed to be laden with care, and his eyes

'Oh, I'm pretty wellin health, that is. You see one has so many things to think of when one has a large

'Of course; living with you as much as I used to, I know the whole story of what kept you single.'

'I mustn't let you suppose, Johnny, that I'm grumbling about my lot. Nobody knows better than you do what a

'And if I cut you out a little there, I'm sure you never felt malice against me for that.'

'You may say a family,' said Cradell. 'I'm sure that Amelia does the best she can; but we a desperately pushed

'Did I? I don't remember it. I didn't think I was so bad then. But, Johnny, if you can let me have one more

fiver now I have made arrangements with Amelia how I'm to pay you off by thirty shillings a monthas I

'It's no good your Johnnying me, for I won't be Johnnyed out of another shilling. It comes too often, and

there's no reason why I should do it. And what's more, I can't afford it. I've people of my own to help.'

'But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you are. And I'm sure no one rejoiced as I did when the

money was left to you. If it had been myself I could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my solemn word

Although Mr Cradell would probably, if pressed, have admitted the truth of this last assertion, he did not

seem to think that the end had as yet come to his friend's benevolence. It certainly had not come to his own

'When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I didn't like to got to you again, because of course a man has

feelings, she told me to mention her name. "I'm sure he'd do it for my sake,"' she said.

'Oh, Johnny, don't speak in that way of her. She's my wife, and you know what your own feelings were once.

But look herewe are in that state at home at this moment, that I must get money somewhere before I go

home. I must, indeed. If you'll let me have three pounds this once, I'll never ask you again. I'll give you a

written promise if you like, and I'll pledge myself to pay it back by thirty shillings a time out of the next two

months' salary. I will, indeed.' And then Mr Cradell began to cry. But when Johnny at last took out his

chequebook and wrote a cheque for three pounds, Mr Cradell's eyes glistened with joy. 'Upon my word I am

so much obliged to you! You are the best fellow that ever lived. And Amelia will say the same when she

'I don't believe she'll say anything of the kind, Cradell. If I remember anything of her, she has a stouter heart

than that.' Cradell admitted that his wife had a stouter heart than himself, and then made his way back to his

This little interruption to the current of Mr Eames's thoughts was, I think, good for the service, as

immediately on his friend's departure he went to his work; whereas, had not he been called away from his

reflections about Miss Dale, he would have sat thinking about her affairs probably for the rest of the morning.

As it was, he really did write a dozen notes in answer to as many private letters addressed to his chief, Sir

Raffle Buffle, in all of which he made excellentlyworded false excuses for the nonperformance of various

requests made to Sir Raffle by the writers. 'He's about the best hand at it that I know,' said Sir Raffle, one day,

to the secretary; 'otherwise you may be sure I shouldn't keep him here.' 'I will allow that he's clever,' said the

secretary. 'It isn't cleverness, so much as tact. It's what I call tact. I hadn't been long in the service before I

mastered it myself; and now that I've been at the trouble to teach him I don't want to have the trouble to teach

another. But upon my word he must mind his p's and q's; upon my word, he must; and you had better tell him

so.' 'The fact is, Mr Kissing,' said the private secretary the next day to the secretaryMr Kissing was at that

time secretary to the board of commissioners for the receipt of income tax'the fact is, Mr Kissing, Sir

Raffle should never attempt to write a letter himself. He doesn't know how to do it. He always says twice too

much, and yet not half enough. I wish you'd tell him so. He won't believe me.' From which it will be seen Mr

Eames was proud of his special accomplishment, but did not feel any gratitude to the master who assumed to

himself the glory of having taught him. On the present occasion John Eames wrote all his letters before he

thought again of Lily Dale, and was able to write them without interruption, as the chairman was absent for

the day at the Treasuryor perhaps at his club. Then, when he had finished, he rang his bell, and ordered

some sherry and sodawater, and stretched himself before the fireas though his exertions in the public

service had been very greatand seated himself comfortably in his armchair, and lit a cigar, and again took

As regarded the cigar, it may be said that both Sir Raffle and Mr Kissing had given orders that on no account

should cigars be lit within the precincts of the IncomeTax Office. Mr Eames had taken upon himself to

understand that such orders did not apply to a private secretary, and was well aware that Sir Raffle knew his

habit. To Mr Kissing, I regret to say, he put himself in opposition whenever and wherever opposition was

possible; so that men in the office said that one of the two must go at last. 'But Johnny can do anything, you

know, because he has got money.' That was too frequently the opinion finally expressed among the men.

So John Eames sat down, and drank his sodawater, and smoked his cigar, and read his letter; or, rather,

simply that paragraph of the letter which referred to Miss Dale. 'The tidings of her death have disturbed her,

and set her thinking again of things that were fading from her mind.' He understood it all. And yet how could

it possibly be so? How could it be that she should not despise a mandespise him if she did not hate

himwho had behaved as this man had behaved to her? It was now four years since this Crosbie had been

engaged to Miss Dale, and had jilted her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of every man in London who

had heard the story. He had married an earl's daughter, who had left him within a few months of their

marriage, and now Mr Crosbie's noble wife was dead. The wife was dead, and simply because the man was

free again, he, John Eames, was to be told that Miss Dale's mind was 'disturbed', and that her thoughts were

going back to things which had faded from her memory, and which should have been long since banished

If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr Crosbie, anything so perversely cruel as the fate of John Eames would

never have yet been told in romance. That was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his cigar. I have

said that was proud of his constancy, and yet, in some sort, he was also ashamed of it. He acknowledged the

fact of his love, and believed himself to have outJacobed Jacob; but he felt that it was hard for a man who

had risen in the world as he had done to be made a plaything of by a foolish passion. It was not four years

agothat affair of Crosbieand Miss Dale should have accepted him long since. Halfadozen times he

had made up his mind to be very stern with her; and he had written somewhat sternlybut the first moment

that he saw her he was conquered again. 'And now that brute will reappear and everything will be wrong

again,' he said to himself. If the brute did reappear, something should happen of which the world would hear

the tidings. So he lit another cigar, and began to think what that something should be.

As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, rattling winds in the next room, and he knew that Sir Raffle

had come back from the Treasury. There was a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, and a ringing of

bells, and then a loud angry voicea voice that was very harsh, and on this occasion very angry. Why had

not his twelve o'clock letters been sent up to him to the West End? Why not? Mr Eames knew all about it.

Why did Mr Eames know all about it? Why had not Mr Eames not sent them up? Where was Mr Eames? Let

Mr Eames be sent to him. All which Mr Eames heard standing with the cigar in his mouth and his back to the

fire. 'Somebody has been bullying old Buffle, I suppose. After all he as been up at the Treasure today,' said

Eames to himself. But he did not stir till the messenger had been to him, nor even then at once. 'All right,

Rafferty,' he said; 'I'll go just now.' Then he took halfadozen more whiffs from the cigar, threw the

remainder into the fire, and opened the door which communicated between his room and Sir Raffle's.

The great man was standing with two unopened epistles in his hand. 'Eames,' said he, 'here are letters'

Then he stopped himself, and began upon another subject. 'Did I not give express orders that I would have no

'It did not begin with Mr Kissing; it began and ended with me. What are you going to do, sir?' John Eames

'And who told you to ring for the papers? I don't want the papers. The papers won't show anything. I suppose

'You'll have to go back to him, and let somebody come here who will not be too independent to obey my

orders. Here are two most important letters that have been lying here all day, instead of being sent up to me at

'I told you that I should go to the Treasury. I have been there all morning with the chancellor'when Sir

Raffle spoke officially of the chancellor he was not supposed to mean the Lord Chancellor'and here I find

letters which I particularly wanted lying upon my desk now. I must put an end to this kind of thing. I must,

'Think about it! What do you mean by thinking about it? But I can't talk about that now. I'm very busy, and

'Very well. That will do for the presentI wouldn't have had these letters delayed for twenty pounds.'

'I don't suppose it would have mattered one straw if both of them remained unopened till next week.' This last

little speech, however, was not made aloud to Sir Raffle, but by Johnny to himself in the solitude of his own

Very soon after that he went away, Sir Raffle having discovered that one of the letters in question required

immediate return to the West End. 'I've changed my mind about staying. I shan't stay now. I should have done

Eames did do as he liked, and went home, or to his club; and as he went he resolved that he would put an end,

and at once, to the present trouble of his life. Lily Dale should accept him or reject him; and, taking either the

It was Christmastime down at Allington, and at three o'clock on Christmas Eve, just as the darkness of the

early winter evening was coming on, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were seated together, one above the other,

on the steps leading up to the pulpit at Allington Church. They had been working all day at the decorations of

the church, and they were now looking round them at the result of their handiwork. To an eye unused to the

gloom the place would have been nearly dark; but they could see every corner turned by the ivy sprigs, and

every line on which the hollyleaves were shining. And the greeneries of the winter had not been stuck up in

the oldfashioned, idle way, a bough just fastened up here and a twig inserted there; but everything had been

done with some meaning, with some thought towards the original architecture of the building. The Gothic

lines had been followed, and all the lower arches which it had been possible to reach with an ordinary ladder

had been turned as truly with the laurel cuttings as they had been turned originally with the stone.

'I wouldn't tie another twig,' said the elder girl, 'for all the Christmas puddings that was ever boiled.'

'I don't know about that. I see a score of places where the work has been scamped. This is the sixth time I

have done the church, and I don't think I'll ever do it again. When we first began it, Bell and I, you

knowbefore Bell was marriedMrs Boyce, and the Boycian establishment generally, used to come and

help. Or rather we used to help her. Now she hardly ever looks after it at all.'

'She's a little older, and a deal idler. How idle people do get! Look at him. Since he has had a curate he hardly

ever stirs round the parish. And he is getting so fat thatHsh! Here she is herselfcome to give her

judgment upon us.' Then a stout lady, the wife of the vicar, walked slowly up the aisle. 'Well, girls,' she said,

'you have worked hard, and I am sure Mr Boyce will be very much obliged to you.'

'Mr Boyce, indeed!' said Lily Dale. 'We shall expect the whole parish to rise from their seats and thank us.

'They were so tired when they came in from the coal club. Besides, they don't care for this kind of thingnot

'Jane is utilitarian to the backbone, I know,' said Lily, 'and Betsy doesn't like getting up ladders.'

'As for ladders,' said Mrs Boyce, defending her daughter, 'I am not quite sure that Betsy isn't right. You don't

'Every twig, with Hopkins to hold the ladder and cut the sticks; and as Hopkins is just a hundred and one

'He has been grumbling all the time,' said Lily, 'and swears he never will have the laurels robbed again. Five

or six years ago he used to declare that death would certainly save him from the pain of such another

desecration before next Christmas; but he has given up that foolish notion now, and talks as though he meant

'I am sure we gave our share from the parsonage,' said Mrs Boyce, who never understood a joke.

'All the best came from the parsonage, as of course they ought,' said Lily. 'But Hopkins had to make up the

deficiency. And as my uncle told him to take the haycart for them instead of the handbarrow, he is

'Nevertheless he is brokenhearted; and I am very goodnatured too, and I am brokenbacked. Who is going

'Tell him not to be too long because of the children's pudding. Tell Mr Boyce if he is long, we won't any of us

'My dear, how can you say such wicked things! I shall not tell him anything of the kind.'

'That's not wicked, Mrs Boyce. If I were to say I had eaten so much lunch that I didn't want any dinner, you'd

'He has been over the halfhour every Sunday since he has been here. His average is over forty minutes, and I

'Look at my uncle; he doesn't like to go to sleep, and he has to suffer a purgatory in keeping himself awake.'

'If your uncle is heavy now, how can Mr Swanton help it? If Mr Dale's mind were on the subject he would

'Come, Mrs Boyce; there's somebody else asleep sometimes besides my uncle. When Mr Boyce puts up his

'Lily Dale, you have no business to say so. It is not true. I don't know how you can bring yourself to talk in

that way of your own clergyman. If I were to tell your mamma, she would be shocked.'

'If you think more about the clergymen, Lily, and less about the church,' said Mrs Boyce very sententiously,

'more about the matter and less about the manner, more of the reality and less of the form, I think you would

find that your religion would go further with you. Miss Crawley is the daughter of a clergyman, and I am sure

'I don't mind it from you, Mrs Boyce. Indeed, I rather like it. It is a sort of pastoral visitation; and as Mr

Boyce never scolds me himself I take it from him by attorney.' Then there was silence for a minute or two,

during which Mrs Boyce was endeavouring to discover whether Miss Dale was laughing at her or not. As she

was not quite certain, she thought at last she would let the suspected fault pass unobserved. 'Don't wait for us,

Mrs Boyce,' said Lily. 'We must remain till Hopkins has sent Gregory to sweep the church out and take away

'Thank you, my dear. Then I may as well go. I thought I'd come in and see that it was all right. I'm sure Mr

'Goodnight, Mrs Boyce; and be sure you don't let Mr Swanton be long tomorrow.' To this parting shot Mrs

Boyce made no rejoinder; but she hurried out of the church somewhat the quicker for it, and closed the door

Of all persons clergymen are the most irreverent in the handling of things supposed to be sacred, and next to

them clergyman's wives, and after them those other ladies, old or young, who take upon themselves

semiclerical duties. And it is natural that it should be so; for is it not said that familiarity does breed

contempt? When a parson takes his lay friend over his church on a week day, how much less of the spirit of

genuflexion and headuncovering the clergyman will display to the layman! The parson pulls about the

woodwork and knocks about the stonework, as though it were mere wood and stone; and talks aloud in the

aisle, and treats even the readingdesk as a common thing; whereas the visitor whispers gently, and carries

himself as though even in looking at a church he was bound to regard himself as performing some service

that was half divine. Now Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were both accustomed to churches, and had been so

long at work in this church for the last two days, that the building had lost to them much of its sacredness,

'I am so glad she has gone,' said Lily. 'We shall have to stop here for the next hour, as Gregory won't know

what to take away and what to leave. I was so afraid she was going to stop and see us off the premises.'

'I don't dislike her. I like her very well,' said Lily Dale. 'But don't you feel that there are people whom one

knows very intimately, who are really friendsfor whom if they were dying one would grieve, whom if they

were in misfortune one would go far to help, but with whom for all that one can have no sympathy. And yet

they are so near to one that they know all the events of one's life, and are justified by unquestioned friendship

in talking about things which should never be mentioned except where sympathy exists.'

'Everybody understands it who has been unhappy. That woman sometimes says things to me that make me

wishwish that they'd make him bishop of Patagonia. And yet does it all in friendship, and mamma says

'But he does go to sleepand then he scratches his nose to show that he's awake. I shouldn't have said it,

only she is always hinting at uncle Christopher. Uncle Christopher certainly does go to sleep when Mr Boyce

preaches, and he hasn't studied any scientific little movement during his slumbers to make the people believe

'I shouldn't have thought he could have been angry with you. It seems to me from what you say that you may

'He is very good to me. If you knew it allif you could understand how good he has been! I'll try and tell

you one day. It is not what he has done that makes me love him sobut what he has thoroughly understood,

and what, so understanding, he has not done, and what he has not said. It is a case of sympathy. If ever there

was a gentleman uncle Christopher is one. And I used to dislike him so, at one time!'

'Chiefly because he would make me wear brown frocks when I wanted to have them pink or green. And he

kept me for six months from having them long, and up to this day he scolds me if there is half an inch on the

'I don'tnot now. But it used to be serious when I was a young girl. And we thought, Bell and I, that he was

cross to mamma. He and mamma didn't agree at first, you know, as they do now. It is quite true that he did

'But he did. And then he wanted to make up a marriage between Bell and my cousin Bernard. But neither of

them cared a bit for each other, and then he used to scold themand thenand then and thenOh, he

was so good to me! Here's Gregory at last. Gregory, we've been waiting this hour and a half.'

'Then Hopkins is a traitor. Never mind. You'd better begin now up there at the steps. It'll be quite dark in a

few minutes. Here's Mrs Giles with her broom. Come, Mrs Giles; we shall have to pass the night here if you

'No; I'm not cold. I'm thinking what they are doing now in the church at Hogglestock.'

'Oh, no. It is a very plain brick building, with something like a pigeonhouse for a belfry. And the pulpit is

over the readingdesk, and the readingdesk over the clerk, so that papa, when he preaches, is nearly up to

the ceiling. And the whole place is divided into pews, in which the farmers hide themselves when they come

'So that nobody can see whether they go to sleep or not. Oh, Mrs Giles, you mustn't pull that down. That's

'But it be in the way, miss; so that minister can't budge in or out o' the door.'

'Never mind. Then he must stay one side or the other. That would be too much after all our trouble!' And

Miss Dale hurried across the chancel to save some pretty arching boughs, which, in the judgment of Mrs

Giles, encroached too much on the vestry door. 'As if it signified which side he was,' she said in a whisper to

'Nobody will. There never is anybody at Hogglestock to stick up wreaths or do anything for the prettiness of

life. And now there will be less than ever. How can mamma look after hollyleaves in her present state? And

yet she will miss them, too. Poor mamma sees very little that is pretty; but she has not forgotten how pleasant

'I think it would be impossible for anyone to know mamma nowfor anyone who had not known her before.

She never makes even a new acquaintance. She seems to think that there's nothing left for her in the world

but to try to keep papa out of his misery. And she does not succeed in that. Poor papa!'

'Of course I know that papa did not mean to take anything that was not his own. But, you see, nobody knows

where it came from; and nobody except mamma and Jane and I understand how very absent papa can be. I'm

sure he doesn't know the least in the world how he came by it himself, or he would tell mamma. Do you

'Don't say that, dear. Remember how anxious Mrs Crawley was that you should come.'

'But I cannot bear to be comfortable here while they are so wretched at home. It seems such a mockery. Every

time I find myself smiling at what you say to me, I think I must be the most heartless creature in the world.'

'Indeed it is bad. I don't think you can imagine what mamma has to go through. She has to cook all that is

eaten in the house, and then, very often, there is no money in the house to buy anything. If you were to see

the clothes she wears, even that would make your heart bleed. I who have been used to being poor all my

'You can do nothing, Lily. But when things are like that at home, you can understand what I feel in being

Mrs Giles and Gregory had now completed their task, or had so nearly done so as to make Miss Dale think

that she might safely leave the church. 'We will go in now,' she said; 'for it is dark and cold, and what I call

'I don't think I shall ever see a ghost; but all the same I should be half afraid to be here alone in the dark.'

'I am often here alone in the dark, but I am beginning to think I shall never see a ghost now. I am losing all

my romance, and getting to be an old woman. Do you know, Grace, I do so hate myself for being such an old

'I see it in people's eyes, and hear it in their voices. And they all talk to me as if I were steady, and altogether

removed from anything like fun and frolic. It seems to be admitted that if a girl does not want to fall in love,

she ought not to care for any other fun in the world. If anybody made out a list of the old ladies in these parts,

they'd put down Lady Julia, and mamma, and Mrs Boyce, and me, and old Mrs Hearne. The very children

have an awful respect for me, and give over playing directly they see me. Well, mamma, we've done at last,

Such was Miss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley was staying;Lily Dale with whom Mr John Eames,

of the Incometax Office, had been so long and so steadily in love, that he was regarded among his

fellowclerks as a miracle of constancywho had, herself, in former days been so unfortunate in love as to

have been regarded among her friends in the country as the most illused of women. As John Eames had

been able to be comfortable in lifethat is to say, not utterly a wretchin spite of his love, so had she

managed to hold up her head, and live as other young women live, in spite of her fortune. But as it may be

said also that his constancy was true constancy, although he knew how to enjoy the good things of the world,

so also had her misfortune been a true misfortune, although she had been able to bear it without much outer

show of shipwreck. For a few daysfor a week or two, when the blow first struck her, she had been knocked

down, and the friends who were nearest to her had thought that she would never again stand erect upon her

feet. But she had been very strong, stout at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of resistance against

oppression. Even her own mother had been astonished, and sometimes almost dismayed, by the strength of

her will. Her mother knew well how it was with her now; but they who saw her frequently, and who did not

know her as her mother knew herthe Mrs Boyce's of her acquaintancewhispered among themselves that

On the next day, Christmas Day, as the reader will remember, Grace Crawley was taken up to dine at the big

house with the old squire. Mrs Dale's eldest daughter, with her husband, Dr Crofts, was to be there; and also

Lily's old friend, who was also especially the old friend of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia De Guest. Grace had

endeavoured to be excused from the party, pleading many pleas. But the upshot of all her pleas was

thisthat while her father's position was so painful she ought not to go out anywhere. In answer to this, Lily

Dale, corroborated by her mother, assured her that for her father's sake she ought not to exhibit any such

feeling; that in doing so, she would seem to express a doubt as to her father's innocence. Then she allowed

herself to be persuaded, telling her friend, however, that she knew the day would be very miserable to her. 'It

will be very humdrum, if you please,' said Lily. 'Nothing can be more humdrum than Christmas at the Great

Coming out of the church, Grace was introduced to the old squire. He was a thin, old man, with grey hair, and

the smallest possible grey whiskers, with a dry, solemn face; not carrying in his outward gait much of the

customary jollity for Christmas. He took his hat off to Grace, and said some word to her as to hoping to have

the pleasure of seeing her at dinner. It sounded very cold to her, and she became at once afraid of him. 'I wish

I was not going,' she said to Lily, again. 'I know he thinks I ought not to go. I shall be so thankful if you will

'Don't be foolish, Grace. It all comes from your not knowing him, or understanding him. And how should you

understand him? I give you my word that I would tell you if I did not know that he wishes you to go.'

She had to go. 'Of course I haven't a dress fit. How should I?' she said to Lily. 'How wrong it is of me to put

'Your dress is beautiful, child. We are none of us going in evening dresses. Pray believe me that I will not

Of course she went. When the three ladies entered the drawingroom of the Great House, they found that

Lady Julia had arrived just before them. Lady Julia immediately took hold of Lily, and had her apart, having

a word or two to say about the clerk at the Incometax Office. I am not sure but what the dear old woman

sometimes said a few more words than were expedient, with a view to the object which she had so closely at

heart. 'John is to be with us the first week in February,' she said. 'I suppose you'll see him before that, as he'll

'I'm the most goodnatured young woman alive, Lady Julia; and as for Johnny, he is always as welcome at

the Small House as violets in March. Mamma purrs about him when he comes, asking all manner of flattering

questions as though he were a cabinet minister at least, and I always admire some little knickknack that he

has got, a new ring, or a stud, or a button. There isn't another man in all the world whose buttons I'd look at.'

'Ah, that's just it. I can go as far as his buttons. But, come, Lady Julia, this is Christmastime, and Christmas

In the meantime Mrs Dale was occupied with her married daughter and her soninlaw, and the squire had

attached himself to poor Grace. 'You have never been in this part of the country before, Miss Crawley,' he

'It is rather pretty just about here, and Guestwick Manor is a fine place in its way, but we have not so much

natural beauty as you have in Barsetshire. Chaldicote Chase is, I think, as pretty as anything in England.'

'I never saw Chaldicote Chase, sir. It isn't pretty at all at Hogglestock, where we live.'

'Ah, I forgot. No; it is not very pretty at Hogglestock. That's where the bricks come from.'

'Yes, yes; I remember. Your father is a great scholar. I have often heard of him. I am sorry he should be

distressed by this charge they have made. But it will all come right in the assizes. They always get at the truth

there. I used to be intimate with a clergyman in Barsetshire of the name of Grantly' Grace felt that her ears

were tingling, and that her face was red'Archdeacon Grantly. His father was bishop of the diocese.'

'I was staying once with an old friend of mine, Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, who lives close to Plumstead, and

saw a good deal of them. I remember thinking Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He married afterwards.'

'Yes sir; but his wife is dead now, and he has got a little girl Edith Grantly.'

'Then, my dear, you never saw a very famous pillar of the Church. I remember when people used to talk a

great deal about Archdeacon Grantly; but when his time came to be made a bishop, he was not sufficiently

newfangled; and so he got passed by. He is much better off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work very

'So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy man. So Henry Grantly has got an only daughter? I hope

'She is a very nice child, indeed Mr Dale. She could not be nicer. And she is so lovely.' Then Mr Dale looked

into his young companion's face, struck by the sudden animation of her words, and perceived for the first

After this Grace became accustomed to the strangeness of the faces round her, and managed to eat her dinner

without much perturbation of spirit. When after dinner the squire proposed to her that they should drink the

health of her papa and mamma, she was almost reduced to tears, and yet she liked him for doing it. It was

terrible to her to have them mentioned, knowing as she did that everyone who mentioned them must be aware

of their miseryfor the misfortune of her father had become notorious in the country; but it was almost

terrible to her that no allusion should be made to them; for then she would be driven to think that her father

was regarded as a man whom the world could not afford to mention. 'Papa and mamma,' she just murmured,

raising her glass to her lips. 'Grace, dear,' said Lily from across the table, 'here's papa and mamma, and the

young man at Malborough who is carrying everything before him.' 'Yes; and we won't forget the young man

at Malborough,' said the squire. Grace felt this to be goodnatured, because her brother at Malborough was

'Here's the health of John Eames,' said Lily; and her voice was the clearest and boldest of them all. But she

made up her mind that if Lady Julia could not be induced to spare her for the future, she and Lady Julia must

quarrel. 'No one can understand,' she said to her mother that evening, 'how dreadful it isthis being

constantly told before one's family and friends that one ought to marry a certain young man.'

'I should much prefer that she should, then I could get up on my legs and answer her off the reel.' Of course

everybody there understood what she meantincluding old John Bates, who stood at the sideboard and

'He always does that to all the family toasts on Christmas Day. Your uncle likes it.'

After dinner they all played cardsa round gameand the squire put in the stakes. 'Now, Grace,' said Lily,

'you are the visitor and you must win, or else Uncle Christopher won't be happy. He always likes a young

'Go and sit next to him, and he'll teach you. Uncle Christopher, won't you teach Grace Crawley? She never

'Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, dear, dear; fancy Henry Grantly having a little girl. What a

handsome lad he was. And it seems only yesterday.' If it was so that Lily had said a word to her uncle about

Grace and the major, the old squire had become on a sudden very sly. Be that as it may, Grace Crawley

thought he was a pleasant old man; and though, while talking to him about Edith, she persisted in not learning

to play Pope Joan, so that he could not contrive that she should win, nevertheless the squire took to her very

kindly, and told her to come up with Lily and see him sometimes while she was staying at the Small House.

The squire in speaking of his sisterinlaw's cottage always called it the Small House.

'Only think of winning,' said Lady Julia, drawing together her wealth. 'Well, I'm sure I want it bad enough,

for I don't at all know whether I've got any income of my own. It's all John Eames's fault, my dear, for he

won't go and make those people settle it in Lincoln's Inn Fields.' Poor Lily, who was standing on the

hearthrug, touched her mother's arms. She knew Johnny's name was lugged in with reference to Lady Julia's

money altogether for her benefit. 'I wonder whether she had a Johnny of her own,' she said to her mother, 'and

if so, whether she liked it when her friends sent the towncrier round to talk about him.'

'My uncle didn't bite you after all, Grace,' said Lily to her friend as they were going home at night, by the

'There is some queerlooking animal of whom they say that he is better than he looks, and I always think of

'For shame, Lily,' said her mother. 'Your uncle, for his age, is as good looking a man as I know. And he

'I didn't mean to say a word against his dear old face and figure, mamma; but his heart and mind, and general

disposition, as they come out in experience and days of trial, are so much better than the samples of them

which he puts out on the counter for men and women to judge by. He wears well, and he washes well if

'The Apollos of the worldI don't mean in outward looks, mamma but the Apollos in heart, the

menand the women toowho are so full of feeling, so softnatured, so kind, who never say a cross word,

who never get out of bed on the wrong side in the morningit so often turns out that they won't wash.'

The scene which occurred in Hogglestock church on the Sunday after Mr Thumble's first visit to the parish

had not been described with accuracy either by the archdeacon in his letter to his son, or by Mrs Thorne.

There had been no footman from the palace in attendance on Mr Thumble, nor had there been a battle with

the brickmakers; neither had Mr Thumble been put under the pump. But Mr Thumble had gone over, taking

his gown and surplice with him, on the Sunday morning, and had intimated to Mr Crawley his intention of

performing the service. Mr Crawley, in answer to this, had assured Mr Thumble that he would not be allowed

to open his mouth in the church; and Mr Thumble, not seeing his way to any further successful action, had

contented himself with attending the services in his surplice, making thereby a silent protest that he, and not

When Mr Trumble reported himself and his failure to the palace, he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs Proudie,

but not successfully. He knew something of the palace habits, and did manage to reach the bishop alone on

the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his lordship for such an interview by the remarkable circumstances

of the case and the importance of his late mission. Mrs Proudie always went to church on Sunday evenings,

making a point of hearing three services and three sermons every Sunday of her life. On weekdays she

seldom heard any, having an idea that weekday services were an invention of the High Church enemy, and

that they should therefore be vehemently discouraged. Services on saints' days she regarded as rank papacy,

and had been known to accuse a clergyman's wife to her face, of idolatry because the poor lady had dated a

letter, St John's Eve. Mr Thumble, on this Sunday evening, was successful in finding the bishop at home, and

alone, but he was not lucky enough to get away before Mrs Proudie returned. The bishop, perhaps, thought

that the story of the failure had better reach his wife's ears from Mr Thumble's lips than from his own.

'Well, Mr Thumble?' said Mrs Proudie, walking into the study, armed in her full Sundayevening winter

panoply, in which she had just descended from her carriage. The church which Mrs Proudie attended in the

evening was nearly half a mile from the palace, and the coachman and groom never got a holiday on Sunday

night. She was gorgeous in a dark brown silk dress of awful stiffness and terrible dimensions; and on her

shoulders she wore a short cloak of velvet and fur, very handsome withal, but so swelling in its proportions

on all sides as necessarily to create more of dismay than of admiration in the mind of any ordinary man. And

her bonnet was a monstrous helmet with the beaver up, displaying the awful face of the warrior, always ready

for combat, and careless to guard itself from attack. The large contorted bows which she bore were as a grisly

crest upon her casque, beautiful doubtless, but majestic and fearcompelling. In her hand she carried her

armour all complete, a prayerbook, a Bible, and a book of hymns. These the footman had brought for her to

the study door, but she had thought it fit to enter her husband's room with them in her own custody.

Mr Thumble did not answer at once, thinking, probably, that the bishop might choose to explain the

'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 contumaciousvery contumacious indeed.'

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

'Then you should have had the police. I never heard of anything so mismanaged in all my lifenever 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 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 alternatives of flight were hardly left to

'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.

'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

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

'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 that 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 that 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

'Mr Thumble,' said the bishop, 'perhaps you had better now retire. I am very sorry that you should have had

'I think it better,' said the bishop. 'Mr Thumble, goodnight.' 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 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

'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 in the presence or absence of anyone.' Then the conquered

amazon collected together her 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

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 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 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 sittingroom upstairs, or else that the things

were laid in the drawingroom. He did wander forth to the latter apartment, hoping that he might find his

wife there; but the drawingroom 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 old how

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

summonssitting very fortless and all alone on that Sunday eveningdating his letter, however, for the

'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 of 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 the authority which I cannot but suppose you acknowledge to be vested in the office which I hold.

'I shall be glad to see you 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 will be provided for yourself and your

'My dear,' he said, when he did again encounter his wife that night, 'I have written to Mr Crawley, and I

'Certainly not. Why should I look at the letter? My word goes for nothing. I have done what I could, but in

The bishop did not pass a comfortable night; but in the morning his wife did read the 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

'I think he will,' said Mrs Proudie, 'and I trust that we may be able to convince him that obedience will be the

best course. He will be more humbleminded 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 his 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

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

'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 noneI have the honour to by, My lord,

'Of course I shall go,' he had said to his wife as soon as he 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

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 he 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 on the following day he would walk to

Barchester and backwith 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 his encounter

with the bishopsnorting 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 also, of the awful tragedy of the story of Oedipus. 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 satisfaction. She had learned well what were the

little tricks necessary to the carrying of such a matter as she now had in hand. Mr Mangle, the farmer, as it

happened, was going tomorrow morning in his taxcart 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 a half 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 if 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 more full. But I fearI fear the dear good woman had

been thus cunninghad understood how far the trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catching her

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 nowt, your reverence, of running you over to Barchesterthat I wouldn't. The powny

'And how about your business here?' said Mr Crawley. The farmer scratched his head, remembering 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 the 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 bootswith boots necessarily

dirty with rusty pantaloons, that he would be hot and mudstained with his walk, hungry, and an object to

be wondered at by all who should see him, because the misfortunes which had been unworthily heaped upon

his head; whereas the bishop would be sleek and clean and wellfedpretty 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

proud. And the bishop would be in his own armchairthe 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

hima man called thither to undergo censure. And yet he would take the bishop in his grasp and crush

himcrush himcrush 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 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. And as this passed through his mind, he forgot his wife's cunning, and farmer Mangle's sin, and for the

As he turned a corner round by Lord Lufton's park paling, who should he meet but his old friend Mr Robarts,

the parson of Framleythe parson who had committed the sin of being bail for himthe sin, that is,

according to Mrs Proudie's view of the matter. He was walking with his hand still stretched outstill

'What, Crawley! upon my word I am very glad to see you; you are coming to me, of course?'

'Thank you, Mr Robarts; no, not today. The bishop has summoned me to his presence, and I am on my road

'I hope not quite impossible, Mr Robarts. I trust I shall get as far before two o'clock; but to do so I must be on

my road.' Then he showed signs of a desire to go upon his way without further parley.

'But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is the horse and gig doing nothing.'

'No;not so. A neighbour coming hither, who happened to have business at your millhe brought me so far

in his cart. The walk home will be nothingnothing. I shall enjoy it. Good morning, Mr Robarts.'

But Mr Robarts thought of the dirty road and of the bishop's presence, and of his own ideas of what would be

becoming for a clergymanand persevered. 'You will find the lanes so very muddy; and our bishop, you

'He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your shoes were when you came to the palace.'

'If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me but my shoes, let them say their worst. I shall be very

indifferent. I have long ceased, Mr Robarts, to care much what any man or woman may say about my shoes.

Good morning.' Then he stalked on, clutching and crushing in his hand the bishop, and the bishop's wife, and

the whole dioceseand all the Church of England. Dirty shoes, indeed! Whose was the fault that there were

in the church so many feet soiled by unmerited poverty, and so many hands soiled by undeserved wealth? If

the bishop did not like his shoes, let the bishop dare tell him so! So he walked on through the thick of the

He walked fast, and he found himself in the close half an hour before the time named by the bishop. But on

no account would he have rung the palace bell one minute before two o'clock. So he walked up and down

under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled himself, and looked up at the pleasant plateglass in the

windows of the house of his friend the dean, and told himself how, in their college days, he and the dean had

been quite equalquite equal, except by the voices of all qualified judges in the university, he, Mr Crawley,

had been acknowledged the riper scholar. And now the Mr Arabin of those days was Dean of

Barchestertravelling abroad luxuriously at the moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was perpetual

curate at Hogglestock, and had now walked into Barchester at the command of the bishop, because he was

suspected of having stolen twenty pounds! When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice of all this,

his time was up, and he walked boldly to the bishop's gate, and boldly rang the bishop's bell.

Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour rubbed in among the hair on a footman's headjust one dab

here and another theregives such a tone of high life to the family? And seeing that the thing is so easily

done, why do not more people attempt it? The tax on hair powder is but thirteen shillings a year. It may,

indeed, be that the slightest dab in the world justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat three times a day, and

wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however, that a bishop's wife may enjoy the privilege without such

heavy attendant expense; otherwise the man who opened the bishop's door to Mr Crawley would hardly have

The man asked for a card. 'My name is Mr Crawley,' said our friend. 'The bishop desired me to come to him

at this hour. Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here.' The man again asked for a card. 'I am not bound

to carry with me my name printed on a ticket,' said Mr Crawley. 'If you cannot remember it, give me a pencil

and paper, and I will write it.' The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger's manner, brought pen and paper,

He was then ushered into a waitingroom, but, to his disappointment, was not kept there waiting long. Within

three minutes he was ushered into the bishop's study, and into the presence of the two great luminaries of the

diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted by finding Mrs Proudie in the room. In the imaginary

conversation with the bishop which he had been preparing on the road, he had conceived that the bishop

would be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of

the lower clergyman;but now the line of his battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury, but he

trusted to his courage and readiness to enable him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him in the

waiting room, but he kept his old short cloak still upon his shoulders; and when he entered the bishop's room

his hands and arms were hid beneath it. There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It showed at least

that he had no idea of being asked to shake hands with the august persons he might meet. And his head was

somewhat bowed, though his great, bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that neither the bishop

nor Mrs Proudie could drop it from their sight during the whole interview. He was a man who when seen

could hardly be forgotten. The deep angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, telling tales of frequent

angerof anger frequent but generally silentthe repressed indignation of the habitual frown, the long nose

and large powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of thought and suffering, all

combined to make the appearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to the beholders at once his true

character. No one ever on seeing Mr Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant

'You are very punctual, Mr Crawley,' said the bishop. Mr Crawley simply bowed his head, still keeping his

hands beneath his cloak. 'Will you not take a chair nearer to the fire?' Mr Crawley had not seated himself, but

had placed himself in front of a chair at the extreme end of the roomresolved that he would not use it

'Thank you, my lord,' he said. 'I am warm with walking, and if you please, will avoid the fire.'

Now this was a matter which Mr Crawley certainly did not mean to discuss with the bishop. It might be well

for the bishop to demand his presence in the palace, but it could be no part of the bishop's duty to inquire how

he got there. 'That, my lord, is a matter of no moment,' said he. 'I am glad at any rate that I have been enable

Hitherto Mrs Proudie had not said a word. She stood back in the room, near the firemore backward a good

deal than she was accustomed to do when clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such occasions she would

come forward and shake hands with them graciouslygraciously, even if proudly; but she had felt that she

must do nothing of that kind now; there must be no shaking hands with a man who had stolen a cheque for

twenty pounds! It might probably be necessary to keep Mr Crawley at a distance, and therefore she had

remained in the background. But Mr Crawley seemed disposed to keep himself in the background, and

therefore she could speak. 'I hope your wife and children are well, Mr Crawley' she said.

'Thank you, madam, my children are quite well, and Mrs Crawley suffers no special ailment at present.'

'That is much to be thankful for, Mr Crawley.' Whether he were or were not thankful for such mercies as

these was no business of the bishop or of the bishop's wife. That was between him and his God. So he would

not even bow to this civility, but sat with his head erect, and with a great frown on his heavy brow.

Then the bishop rose from his chair to speak, intending to take up a position on the rug. But as he did so Mr

Crawley, who had also seated himself on an intimation that he was expected to sit down, rose also, and the

bishop found that he would thus lose his expected vantage. 'Will you not be seated, Mr Crawley?' said the

bishop. Mr Crawley smiled, but stood his ground. Then the bishop returned to his armchair, and Mr

Crawley also sat down again. 'Mr Crawley,' began the bishop, 'this matter which the other day came before

the magistrates at Silverbridge has been a most unfortunate affair. It has given me, I can assure you, the most

Mr Crawley had made up his mind how far the bishop should be allowed to go without a rebuke. He had told

himself that it would only be natural, and would not be unbecoming, that the bishop should allude to a

meeting of the magistrates and to the alleged theft, and that therefore such allusions should be endured with

patient humility. And, moreover, the more rope he gave the bishop, the more likely the bishop would be to

entangle himself. It certainly was Mr Crawley's wish that the bishop should entangle himself. He, therefore,

'I have felt for Mrs Crawley very deeply,' said Mrs Proudie. Mr Crawley now made up his mind that as long

as it was possible he would ignore the presence of Mrs Proudie altogether; and, therefore, he made no sign

'It has been most unfortunate,' continued the bishop. 'I have never before had a clergyman in my diocese

'That is a matter of opinion, my lord,' said Mr Crawley, who at that moment thought of a crisis that had come

in the life of another clergyman in the diocese of Barchester, and the circumstances of which he had by

'Exactly,' said the bishop. 'And I am expressing my opinion.' Mr Crawley, who understood fighting, did not

think the time had yet come for striking a blow, so he simply bowed again. 'A most unfortunate position, Mr

Crawley,' continued the bishop. 'Far be it from me to express an opinion on the matter, which will have to

come before a jury of your countrymen. It is enough for me to know that the magistrates assembled at

Silverbridge, gentlemen to whom no doubt you must be known, as most of them live in your neighbourhood,

'Most convincing evidence,' said Mrs Proudie, interrupting her husband. Mr Crawley's black brow became a

little blacker has he heard the word, but he still ignored the woman. He not only did not speak, but did not

'They have heard the evidence on the subject,' continued the bishop, 'and they have thought it proper to refer

'Very possibly. I don't deny it. Probably,' said the bishop, whose eloquence was somewhat disturbed by Mr

'At any rate it is so,' said the bishop. 'You are in a position of a man amenable to the criminal laws of the

'There are no criminal laws, my lord,' said Mr Crawley; 'but to such laws as there are we are all

'But you are so in a very particular way. I do not wish to remind you what might be your condition now, but

'I should be in the condition of a man not guilty before the law; guiltless as far as the law goesbut kept

in durance, nor for the faults of his own, but because otherwise, by reason of laches in the police, his presence

at the assizes might not be ensured. In such a position a man's reputation is made to hang for a while on the

trust which some friends or neighbours may have in it. I do not say the test is a good one.'

'You would have been put in prison, Mr Crawley, because the magistrates were of the opinion that you had

taken Mr Soames's cheque,' said Mrs Proudie. On this occasion he did look at her. He turned one glance upon

'But, bishop, I think you have,' said Mrs Proudie. 'The judgment formed by the magistrates as to the conduct

'Yes, my dear, yes; I am coming to that. What Mrs Proudie says is perfectly true. I have been constrained

most unwillingly to take action in the matter. It is undoubtedly the fact that you must at the next assizes

surrender yourself at the courthouse yonder, to be tried for this offence against the laws.'

'You must be there,' said Mrs Proudie. 'The police will look to that, Mr Crawley.' She was becoming very

angry in that the man would not answer her a word. On this occasion he did not even look at her.

'Yes; you will be there,' said the bishop. 'Now that is, to say the least of it, an unseemly position for a

'You said before, my lord, that it was an unfortunate position, and the word, methinks, was better chosen.'

'It is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed,' said Mrs Proudie; 'nothing could possibly be more unseemly.

'Under these circumstances,' continued the bishop, 'looking to the welfare of your parish, to the welfare of the

The bishop shook his head. It is hard to be impressively eloquent when one is interrupted at every best

turning period, even by a supporting voice. 'Yes;and looking of course to the religious interests of your

people, Mr Crawley, I came to the conclusion that it would be expedient that you should cease your

ministrations for a while.' The bishop paused, and Mr Crawley bowed his head. 'I, therefore, sent over to you

a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, Mr Thumble, with a letter from myself, in which I

endeavoured to impress upon you, without the use of any severe language, what my convictions were.'

'Severe words are often the best mercy,' said Mrs Proudie. Mr Crawley had raised his hand, with his finger

out, preparatory to answering the bishop. But as Mrs Proudie had spoken he dropped his finger and was

'Mr Thumble brought me back your written reply,' continued the bishop, 'by which I was grieved to find that

'I was most unwilling, my lord. Submission to authority is at time a duty;and at times opposition to

'And who is to be the judge?' demanded Mrs Proudie. Then there was silence for a while; when, as Mr

Crawley made no reply, the lady repeated her question. 'Will you be pleased to answer my question, sir?

Who, in such case, is to be the judge?' But Mr Crawley did not please to answer the question. 'The man is

'I had better proceed,' said the bishop. 'Mr Thumble brought me back your reply, which grieved me greatly.'

The bishop again shook his head and looked so utterly miserable that a smile came across Mr Crawley's face.

After all, others beside himself had their troubles and trials. Mrs Proudie saw and understood the smile, and

became more angry than ever. She drew her chair close to the table, and began to fidget with her fingers

among the papers. She had never before encountered a clergyman so contumacious, so indecent, so

unreverendso upsetting. She had had to deal with men difficult to managethe archdeacon for instance;

but the archdeacon had never been so impertinent to her as this man. She had quarrelled once openly with a

chaplain of her husband's, a clergyman whom she herself had introduced to her husband, and who had treated

her very badly;but not so badly, not with such unscrupulous violence, as she was now encountering from

this illclothed beggarly man, this perpetual curate, with his dirty broken boots, this already halfconvicted

thief! Such was her idea of Mr Crawley's conduct to her, while she was fingering the paperssimply because

'I forget where I was,' said the bishop. 'Oh, Mr Thumble came back, and I received your letter;of course I

received it. And I was surprised to learn from that, that in spite of what had occurred at Silverbridge, you

'I was determined that I would do my duty at Hogglestock, as long as I might be left there to do it,' said Mr

'Just a moment, my dear,' said the bishop. 'When Sunday came, I had no alternative but to send Mr Thumble

'Yes;just so. And I am sure that he will take it in good part. It occurred to me, Mr Crawley, that your first

'Yes;just so. Well; so I sent him again, hoping that he might be accepted as a messenger of peace. It was a

'And you refused him permission to obey the instructions which I had given him. You would not let him read

'Had I been Mr Thumble,' said Mrs Proudie, 'I would have read from that desk and I would have preached

Mr Crawley waited for a moment, thinking that the bishop might perhaps speak again; but as he did not, but

sat expectant as though he had finished his discourse, and now expected a reply, Mr Crawley got up from his

seat and drew near the table. 'My lord,' he began, 'it has all been just as you said. I did answer your first letter

'And therefore, for aught I know, my letter to your lordship may be so worded as to need some apology.'

'But of the matter of it, my lord, no apology can be made, nor is any needed. I did refuse your messenger

permission to perform the services of my church, and if you send twenty more, I shall refuse them alltill

the time may come when it will be your lordship's duty, in accordance with the laws of the Churchas borne

out and backed by the laws of the land, to provide during my contstrained absence for the spiritual wants of

'And, my lord, it may well be, that it shall soon be your lordship's duty to take due and legal steps for

depriving me of my benefice at Hogglestock;nay, probably, for silencing me altogether as to the exercise

'Of course it will, sir. Your gown will be taken from you,' said Mrs Proudie. The bishop was looking with all

his eyes on the great forehead and great eyebrows of the man, and was so fascinated by the power that was

exercised over him by the other man's strength that he hardly now noticed his wife.

'It may well be so, continued Mr Crawley. 'The circumstances are strong against me; and, though your

lordship may altogether misunderstood the nature of the duty performed by the magistrates in sending my

case for trialalthough, as it seems to me, you have come to conclusions in this matter in ignorance of the

'Yet I can foresee the probability that a jury will may discover me to have been guilty of theft.'

'Should such a verdict be given, then, my lord, your interference will be legal, proper, and necessary. And

you will find that, even if it be within my power to oppose obstacles to your lordship's authority, I will

'None at all,' said Mrs Proudie. 'There is no appeal against your bishop. You should have learned that before.'

'But till that time shall come, my lord, I shall hold my own at Hogglestock as you hold your own here at

Barchester. Nor have you any more power to turn me out of my pulpit by your mere voice, than I have to turn

you out of your throne by mine. If you doubt me, my lord, your lordship's ecclesiastical court is open to you.

'My lord, I grant your authority as bishop is great, but even a bishop can only act as the laws allows him.'

'Sir, you will find that your wicked threats will fall back upon your own head,' said Mrs Proudie.

'Peace, woman,' Mr Crawley said, addressing her at last. The bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing the

wife of his bosom called a woman. But he jumped rather in admiration than in anger. He had already begun

to perceive that Mr Crawley was a man who had better be left to take care of the souls at Hogglestock, at any

'Woman!' said Mrs Proudie, rising to her feet as though she really intended some personal encounter.

'Madam,' said Mr Crawley, 'you should not interfere in these matters. You simply debase you husband's high

office. The distaff is more fitted for you. My lord, good morning.' And before either of them could speak

again, he was out of the room, and through the hall, and beyond the gate, and standing beneath the towers of

the cathedral. Yes, he had, he thought, in truth crushed the bishop. He had succeeded in crumpling the bishop

He started in spirit of triumph to walk back on his road towards Hogglestock. He did not think of the long

distance before him for the first hour of his journey. He had had his victory, and the remembrance of that

braced his nerves and gave elasticity to his sinews, and he went stalking along to road with rapid strides,

muttering to himself from time to time as he went along some word about Mrs Proudie and her distaff. Mr

Thumble would not, he thought, come to him againnot, at any rate, till the assizes were drawing near. And

he had resolved what he would do then. When the day of his trial was near, he would himself write to the

bishop, and beg that provision might be made for his church, in the event of the verdict going against him.

His friend, Dean Arabin, was to be home before that time, and the idea had occurred to him of asking the

dean to see to this; but now the other would be the more independent course, and the better. And there was a

matter as to which he was not altogether well pleased with the dean, although he was so conscious of his own

peculiarities as to know that he could hardly trust himself for a judgment. But, at any rate, he would apply to

the bishop to the bishop whom he had just left prostrate in his palace when the time of his trial should

Full of such thoughts as these he went along almost gaily, nor felt the fatigue of the road till he had covered

the first five miles out of Barchester. It was nearly four o'clock, and the thick gloom of the winter evening

was making itself felt. And then he began to be fatigued. He had not as yet eaten since he had left his home in

the morning, and he now pulled a crust out of his pocket and leaned against a gate as he crunched it. There

were still ten miles before him, and he knew that such an addition to the work he had already done would task

him very severely. Farmer Mangle had told him that he would not leave Framley Mill by that time. But he

had said that he would not return to Framley Mill, and he remembered his suspicion that his wife and the

farmer between them had cozened him. No; he would persevere and walkwalk though he should drop upon

the road. He was now nearer fifty then forty years of age, and hardships as well as time had told upon him.

He knew that the last four miles in the dark would be very sad with him. But still he persevered,

endeavouring, as he went, to cherish himself with the remembrance of his triumph.

He passed the turning going down to Framley with courage, but when he came to the further turning, by

which the cart would return from Framley to the Hogglestock road, he looked wistfully down the road for

farmer Mangle. But farmer Mangle was still at the Mill, waiting in expectation that Mr Crawley might come

to him. But the poor traveller paused here barely for a minute, and then went on, stumbling through the mud,

striking his illcovered feet against the rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at

times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to carry him home. He had almost

forgotten the bishop and his wife before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to his own door.

'Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill.' Then the wife took her drooping husband by both arms and strove to look

'No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill. Let me sit down, and give me some bread and tea, and I shall

recover myself.' Then Mrs Crawley, from some secret hoard, got him a small modicum of spirits, and gave

him meat and tea, and he was docile; and, obeying her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed.

'I do not think the bishop will send for me again,' he said, as she tucked the clothes around him.

When Christmas morning came no emissary from the bishop appeared at Hogglestock to interfere with the

ordinary performance of the day's services. 'I think we need fear no further disturbance,' Mr Crawley said to

On the day after his walk from Framley to Barchester, and from Barchester back to Hogglestock, Mr Crawley

had risen not much the worse for his labour, and had gradually given to his wife a full account of what had

taken place. 'A poor weak man,' he said, speaking of the bishop. 'A poor weak creature, and much to be

'Nay; as for the exact words I cannot remember them. I was thinking more of the word which it might be

fitting that I should answer the bishop. But I certainly told her that she had better mind her distaff.'

'I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken, and I had replied; and why should I tarry to behold the woman's

violence? I had told him that he was wrong in law, and that I at least would not submit to usurped authority.

There was nothing to keep me longer, and so I went without much ceremony of leavetaking. There had been

little ceremony of greeting on their part, and there was less in the making of adieux on mine. They had told

'I say they did;they did use that very word. But stop. I am wrong. I wrong his lordship, and I crave pardon

for having done so. If my memory serve me, no expression so harsh escaped from the bishop's mouth. He

gave me, indeed, to understand more than once that the action taken by the magistrates was tantamount to a

conviction, and that I must be guilty because they had decided that there was evidence sufficient to justify a

trial. But all that arose from my lord's ignorance of the administration of the laws of his country. He was very

ignorantpuzzlepated, as you may call itled by the nose by his wife, weak as water, timid and

vacillating. But he did not wish, I think, to be insolent. It was Mrs Proudie who told me to my face that I was

'May she be punished for the cruel word!' said Mrs Crawley. 'May the remembrance that she has spoken it

'"Vengeance is mine. I will repay," saith the Lord,' answered Mr Crawley. 'We may safely leave all that

alone, and rid our minds of such wishes, if it be possible. It is well, I think, that violent offences, when

committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turn the other cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be

suitable in these days, when the hands of so many are raised to strike. But the return blow should be given

only while the smart remains. She hurt me then; but what is to me now, that she called me a thief to my face?

Do I not know that, all the country round, men and woman are calling me the same behind my back?'

'No, Josiah, you do not know that. They say the thing is very strangeso strange that it requires a trial; but

'I think I did. I myself think I took that which was not my own. My poor head suffers so;so many grievous

thoughts distract me, that I am like a child, and know not what I do.' As he spoke thus he put both hands up to

his head, leaning forward as though in anxious thoughtas though he were striving to bring his mind to bear

with accuracy on past events. 'It could not have been mine, and yet' Then he sat silent, and made no effort

'And yet?'said his wife, encouraging him to proceed. If she could only learn the real truth, she thought that

'From the man Soameshe who accuses me. And yet, as the Lord hears me, I thought so then. The truth is,

that there are times when I am notsane. I am not a thiefnot before God; but I ammad at times.' These

last words were spoken very slowly, in a whisperwithout any excitementindeed with a composure

which was horrible to witness. And what he said was the more terrible because she was so well convinced of

the truth of his words. Of course he was no thief. She wanted no one to tell her that. As he himself had

expressed it, he was no thief before God, however the money might have come into his possession. That there

were times when his reason, once so fine and clear, could not act, could not be trusted to guide him right, as

she had gradually come to know with fear and trembling. But he himself had never before hinted his own

consciousness of this calamity. Indeed he had been so unwilling to speak of himself and his own state, that

she had been unable even to ask him a question about the moneylest he should suspect that she suspected

him. Now he was speakingbut speaking with such heartrending sadness that she could hardly urge him to

'You have sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of us may be,' she said, 'and that has been the cause.'

'There are different kinds of sickness. There is sickness of the body, and sickness of the heart, and sickness of

'With me, Mary, it has been all of themevery one! My spirit is broken, my mind has not been able to keep

its even tenor amidst the ruins. But I will strive. I will strive. I will strive still. And if God helps me, I will

prevail.' Then he took up his hat and cloak, and went forth among the lanes; and on this occasion his wife was

This occurred a day or two before Christmas, and Mrs Crawley during those days said nothing more to her

husband on the subject which he had so unexpectedly discussed. She asked him no questions about the

money, or as to the possibility of his exercising his memory, nor did she counsel him to plead that the false

excuses given by him for the possession of the cheque had been occasioned by the sad slip to which sorrow

had in those days subjected his memory and his intellect. But the matter had always been on her mind. Might

it not be her paramount duty to do something of this at the present moment? Might it not be that his acquittal

or conviction would depend on what she might now learn from him? It was clear to her that he was brighter

in spirit since his encounter with the Proudies than he had ever been since the accusation had been first made

against him. And she knew well that his present mood would not be of long continuance. He would fall again

into his moody silent ways, and then the chance of learning aught from him would be past, and perhaps, for

He performed the Christmas services with nothing of special despondency in his tone or manner, and his wife

thought that she had never heard him give the sacrament with more impressive dignity. After the service he

stood awhile at the churchyard gate, and exchanged a word of courtesy as to the season with such of the

'I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter sixso I did,' said farmer Mangle.

'I kept the road, and walked the whole way,' said Mr Crawley, 'I think I told you that I should not return to the

'Say nowt o' that,' said the farmer. 'No doubt I had business at the milllots to do at the mill.' Nor did he

think the fib he was telling was at all incompatible with the Holy Sacrament in which he had just taken part.

The Christmas dinner at the parsonage was not a repast that did much honour to the season, but it was a better

dinner than the inhabitants of that house usually had on the board before them. There was roast pork and

mincepies, and a bottle of wine. As Mrs Crawley with her own hand put the meat upon the table, and then,

as was her custom in their house, proceeded to cut it up, she looked at husband's face to see whether he was

scrutinising the food with painful eye. It was better that she should tell the truth at once than that she should

be made to tell it, in answer to a question. Everything on the table, except the bread and potatoes, had come in

a basket from Framley Court. Pork had been sent instead of beef, because people in the country, when they

kill their pigs, do sometimes give each other porkbut do not exchange joints of beef, when they slay their

oxen. All this was understood by Mrs Crawley, but she almost wished that beef had been sent, because beef

would have attracted less attention. He said, however, nothing to the meat; but when his wife proposed to him

that he should eat a mincepie he resented it. 'The bare food,' said he, 'is bitter enough, coming as it does; but

that would choke me.' She did not press it, but ate one herself, as otherwise her girl would have been forced

That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she resolved to ask him some further questions. 'You will have a

'Because he will know what questions to ask, and how questions on the other side should be answered.'

'I have no questions to ask, and there is only one way in which questions should be answered. I have no

'But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your honour, and our very life depend upon it'

'I shall not be acquitted. It is as well to look it in the face at once. Lawyer or no lawyer, they will say that I

took the money. Were I upon the jury, trying the case myself, knowing all that I know now,'and as he said

this he struck forth with his hands into the air'I think that I should say so myself. A lawyer will do no

So far she had been successful. At this moment it had in truth been her object to induce him to speak of his

own memory, and not of the aid that a lawyer might give. The proposition of the lawyer had been brought in

It was very hard for her to speak. She could not bear to torment him by any allusion to his own deficiencies.

She could not endure to make him think that she suspected him of any frailty either in intellect or thought.

Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and that he should know that she worshipped him. But if a word might

'Yes,' said he; 'yes; that is the question. Where did it come from:?'and he turned sharp upon her, looking at

her with all the power of his eyes. 'It is because I cannot tell you where it came from that I ought to

beeither in Bedlam, as a madman, or in the county gaol as a thief.' The words were so dreadful to her that

she could not utter at the moment another syllable. 'How is a manto think himselffitfor a man's work,

when he cannot answer his wife such a plain question as that?' Then he paused again. 'They should take me to

Bedlam at onceat onceat once. That would not disgrace the children as the gaol will do.'

It had been suggested to Mr Robarts, that parson at Framley, that he should endeavour to induce his old

acquaintance, Mr Crawley, to employ a lawyer to defend him at his trial, and Mr Robarts had not forgotten

the commission which he had undertaken. But there were difficulties in the matter of which he was well

aware. In the first place Mr Crawley was a man whom it had not at any time been easy to advise on matters

private to himself; and in the next place, this was a matter on which it was very hard to speak to the man

implicated, let him be who he would. Mr Robarts had come round to the generally accepted idea that Mr

Crawley had obtained possession of the cheque illegallyacquitting his friend in his own mind of theft,

simply by supposing that he was woolgathering when the cheque came in his way. But in speaking to Mr

Crawley, it would be necessaryso he thoughtto pretend a conviction that Mr Crawley was as innocent in

He had almost made up his mind to dash at the subject when he met Mr Crawley walking through Framley to

Barchester, but he had abstained chiefly because Mr Crawley had been too quick for him, and had got away.

After that he resolved that it would be almost useless for him to go to work unless he should be provided with

a lawyer reading and willing to undertake the task; and as he was not so provided at present, he made up his

mind that he would go into Silverbridge, and see Mr Walker, the attorney there. Mr Walker always advised

everybody in those parts about everything, and would be sure to know what would be the proper thing to be

done in this case. So Mr Robarts got into his gig, and drove himself into Silverbridge, passing very close to

Mr Crawley's house on his road. He drove at once to Mr Walker's office, and on arriving there found that the

attorney was not at that moment within. But Mr Winthrop was within. Would Mr Robarts see Mr Winthrop?

Now, seeing Mr Winthrop was a very different thing from seeing Mr Walker, although the two gentlemen

were partners. But still Mr Robarts said that he would see Mr Winthrop. Perhaps Mr Walker might return

'Is there anything I can do for you, Mr Robarts?' asked Mr Winthrop. Mr Robarts said that he had wished to

see Mr Walker about that poor fellow Crawley. 'Ah, yes; very said case! So much sadder being a clergyman,

Mr Robarts. We are really quite sorry for him;we are indeed. We wouldn't have touched the case ourselves

if we could have helped ourselves. We wouldn't indeed. But we are obliged to take all that business here. At

'I am sure of that. You don't know whether he has employed any lawyer as yet to defend him?'

'I can't say. We don't know, you know. I should say he hadprobably some Barchester attorney. Borleys and

Bonstock in Barchester are very good peoplevery good people indeed;for that sort of business I mean,

Mr Robarts knew that Mr Winthrop was a fool, and that he could get no useful advice from him. So he

suggested that he would take his gig down to the inn, and call back again before long. 'You'll find that Mr

Walker knows no more than I do about it,' said Mr Winthrop, 'but of course he'll be glad to see you if he

happens to come in.' So Mr Robarts went to the inn, put up his horse, and then, as he sauntered back up the

'I've been at home all the morning,' he said; 'but I've had a stiff job of work on hand, and told them to say in

the office that I was not in. Seen Winthrop, have you? I don't suppose he did know that I was here. The clerks

often know more than the partners. About Mr Crawley, is it? Come into my diningroom, Mr Robarts, where

we shall be alone. Yes;it is a bad case; a very bad case. The pity is that anybody should have said anything

about it. Lord bless me, if I'd been Soames I'd have let him have the twenty pounds. Lord Lufton would never

'Yes;that was just it. Soames couldn't bear to think that he should be left in the dark, and then, when the

poor man said that Soames had paid the cheque to him in the way of businessit was not odd that Soames's

back should have been up, was it? But, Mr Robarts, I should have thought a deal about it before I should have

'Mr Crawley is my friend, and of course I want to assist him. I was under a great obligation to Mr Crawley

once, and I wish to befriend him, whether he took the money or not. But I could act so much better if I felt

'I think he knew it was not his own when he took it. You see I don't think he meant to use it when he took it.

He perhaps had some queer idea that Soames had been hard on him, or his lordship, and that the money was

fairly his due. Then he kept the cheque by him till he was absolutely badgered out of his life by the butcher

'If you could show, you know, that Crawley has got a bee in his bonnet; that the mens sana is not there, in

'You parsons could manage that among you;you and the dean and the archdeacon. The archdeacon has

always got halfadozen curates about somewhere. And thenafter the assizes, Mr Crawley might come to

his senses; and I thinkmind you it's only an ideabut I think the committal might be quashed. It would

have been temporary insanity, and, though mind I don't give my word for it, I think he might go on and keep

'No;I daresay not. You see the difficulty is this. He's so stiffneckedwill do nothing himself. Well, that

will do for one proof of temporary insanity. The real truth is, Mr Robarts, he is as mad as a hatter.'

'And you wouldn't mind saying so in evidencewould you? Well, you see, there is no helping such a man in

'I'm told he won't. Now a man must be mad who won't employ a lawyer when he wants one. You see, the

point we should gain would be thisif we tried to get him through as being a little touched in the upper

storeywhatever we could do for him, we could do against his own will. The more he opposed us the

stronger our case would be. He would swear he was not mad at all, and we should say that that was the

greatest sign of his madness. But when I say we, of course I mean you. I must not appear in it.'

'Ah;there's the difficulty. His wife wouldn't do it, I suppose? She couldn't do him a better turn.'

'Has he no father or mother, or uncles or aunts? He must have somebody belonging to him,' said Mr Walker.

Then it occurred to Mr Robarts that Dean Arabin would be the proper person to interfere. Dean Arabin and

Mr Crawley had been intimate friends in early life, and Dean Arabin knew more of him than did any man, at

least in these parts. All this Mr Robarts explained to Mr Walker, and Mr Walker agreed with him that the

services of Dean Arabin should if possible be obtained. Mr Robarts would at once write to Dean Arabin and

explain at length all the circumstances of the case. 'The worst of it is, he will hardly be home in time,' said Mr

'But we could act in his name in his absence, I suppose?of course with his authority?'

'I wish he could be here a month before the assizes, Mr Robarts. It would be better.'

'And in the meantime shall I say anything to Mr Crawley, myself, about employing a lawyer?'

'I think I would. If he turns upon you, as like he may, and abuses you, that will help us in one way. If he

should consent, and perhaps he may, that would help us in the other way. I'm told he's been over and upset

'I don't like Crawley the less for speaking his mind free to the bishop,' said the lawyer, laughing. 'And he'll

'He won't break any of my bones. Tell me, Mr Walker, what lawyer shall I name to him?'

'No, no, no. Borleys and Bonstock are capital people to push a fellow through on a charge of horsestealing,

or to squeeze a man for a little money; but they are not the people for Mr Crawley in such a case as this.

Mason is the better man; and then Mason and I know each other.' In saying which Mr Walker winked.

There was then a discussion between them whether Mr Robarts should go at once to Mr Mason; but it was

decided at last that he should see Mr Crawley and also write to the dean before his did so. The dean might

wish to employ his own lawyer, and if so the double expense should be avoided. 'Always remember, Mr

Robarts, that when you go into an attorney's office door, you will have to pay for it, first or last. In here, you

see, the dingy old mahogany, bare as it is, makes you safe. Or else it's the saltcellar, which will not allow

itself to be polluted by sixandeightpenny considerations. But there is the other kind of tax to be paid. You

Mr Walker returned to his work, either to some private den within his house, or to his office, and Mr Robarts

was taken upstairs to the drawingroom. There he found Mrs Walker and her daughter, and Miss Anne

Prettyman, who had just looked in, full of the story of Mr Crawley's walk to Barchester. Mr Thumble had

seen one of Dr Tempest's curates, and had told the whole storyhe, Mr Thumble, having heard Mrs

Proudie's version of what had occurred, and having, of course, drawn his own deductions from her premises.

And it seemed that Mr Crawley had been watched as he passed through the close out of Barchester. A minor

canon had seen him, and had declared that he was going at the rate of a hunt, swinging his arms on high and

speaking very loud, thoughas the minor canon said with regretthe words were hardly audible. But there

had been no doubt as to the man. Mr Crawley's old hat, and short rusty cloak, and dirty boots, had been duly

observed and chronicled by the minor canon; and Mr Thumble had been enabled to put together a not

altogether false picture of what had occurred. As soon as the greetings between Mr Robarts and the ladies had

been made, Miss Anne Prettyman broke out again, just where she had left off when Mr Robarts came in.

'Luckily Mrs Proudie won't have much to do in the matter,' said Miss Walker, who ranged herself, as to

church matters, in the ranks altogether opposed to those commanded by Mrs Proudie.

'She will have nothing to do with it, my dear,' said Mrs Walker; 'and I daresay Mrs Proudie was not foolish

'So she is, for the matter of that,' said the young lady; 'but I know very well what you all think of her, and say

of her too, at Framley. Your friend, Lady Lufton, loves her dearly. I wish I could have been behind a curtain

'Mr Smilie declares,' said Miss Prettyman, 'that the bishop has been ill ever since. Mr Smilie went over to his

mother's at Barchester for Christmas, and took part of the cathedral duty, and we had Mr Spooner over her in

his place. So Mr Smilie of course heard all about it. Only fancy, poor Mr Crawley walking all the way from

Hogglestock to Barchester and back;and I am told he hardly had a shoe to his foot! Is it not a shame, Mr

'I don't think it was quite as bad as you say, Miss Prettyman; but, upon the whole, I do think it is a shame. But

'I suppose there are tithes at Hogglestock? Why are they not given up to the church, as they ought to be?'

'My dear, Miss Prettyman, that is a very long subject, and I am afraid it cannot be settled in time to relieve

our poor friend from his distress.' Then Mr Robarts escaped from the ladies in Mr Walker's house, who, as it

seemed to him, were touching upon dangerous ground, and went back to the yard of the George Inn for his

gigthe George and Vulture it was properly called, and was the house in which the magistrates had sat when

'Footed it every inch of the way, blowed if he didn't,' the ostler was saying to a gentleman's groom, whom Mr

Robarts recognised to be the servant of his friend Major Grantly; and Mr Robarts knew that they also were

talking about Mr Crawley. Everybody in the county was talking about Mr Crawley. At home, at Framley,

there was no other subject of discourse. Lady Lufton, the dowager, was full of it, being firmly convinced that

Mr Crawley was innocent, because the bishop was supposed to regard him as guilty. There had been a family

conclave held at Framley Court over that basked of provisions which had been sent for the Christmas cheer of

the Hogglestock parsonage, each of the three ladies, the two Lady Luftons and Mrs Robarts, having special

views of their own. How the pork had been substituted for the beef by old Lady Lufton, young Lady Lufton

thinking that after all the beef might be dangerous, and how a small turkey had been rashly suggested by Mrs

Robarts, and how certain small articles had been inserted in the bottom of the basket which Mrs Crawley had

never shown to her husband, need not here be told at length. But Mr Robarts, as he heard the two grooms

talking about Mr Crawley, began that Mr Crawley had achieved at least celebrity.

The groom touched his hat as Mr Robarts walked up. 'Has the major returned home yet?' Mr Robarts asked.

The groom said that his master was still at Plumstead, and that he was to go over to fetch the major and Miss

Edith in a day or two. Then Mr Robarts got into his gig, and as he drove out of the yard he heard the words of

the men as they returned to the same subject. 'Footed it all the way,' said one. 'And yet he's a gen'leman, too,'

said the other. Mr Robarts thought of this as he drove on, intending to call at Hogglestock on that very day on

his way home. It was undoubtedly the fact that Mr Crawley was recognised to be a gentleman by all who

knew him, high or low, rich or poor, by those who thought well of him and by those who thought ill. These

grooms, who had been telling each other that this parson, who was to be tried as a thief, had been constrained

to walk from Hogglestock to Barchester and back, because he could not afford to travel any other way, and

that his boots were cracked and his clothes ragged, had still known him to be a gentleman! Nobody doubted

it; not even they who thought he had stolen the money. Mr Robarts himself was certain of it, and told himself

that he knew it by the evidences which his own education made clear to him. But how was it that the grooms

knew it? For my part I think that there are no better judges of the article than the grooms.

Thinking of all which he had heard, Mr Robarts found himself at Mr Crawley's gate at Hogglestock.

Mr Robarts was not altogether easy in his mind as he approached Mr Crawley's house. He was aware that the

task before him was a very difficult one, and he had not confidence in himselfthat he was exactly the man

fitted for the performance of such a task. He was a little afraid of Mr Crawley, acknowledging tacitly to

himself that the man had a power of ascendancy with which he would hardly be able to cope successfully. In

old days he had once been rebuked by Mr Crawley, and had been cowed by the rebuke; and though there was

no touch of rancour in his heart on this account, no slightest remaining venombut rather increased respect

and friendshipstill he was unable to overcome his remembrance of the scene in which the perpetual curate

of Hogglestock had undoubtedly the mastery of him. So, when two dogs have fought and one has conquered,

He hailed a boy on the road as he drew near to the house, knowing that he would find no one at the parsonage

to hold his horse for him, and was thus able without delay to walk through the garden and knock at the door.

'Papa was not at home,' Jane said. 'Papa was at the school. But papa could certainly be summoned.' She

herself would run across to the school if Mr Robarts would come in. So Mr Robarts entered, and found Mrs

Crawley in the sittingroom. Mr Crawley would be in directly, she said. And then, hurrying on to the subject

with confused haste, in order that a word or two might be spoken before her husband came back, she

expressed her thanks and his for the good things which had been sent to them at Christmastide.

'It's old Lady Lufton's doings,' said Mr Robarts, trying to laugh the matter over.

'I knew that it came from Framley, Mr Robarts, and I know how good you all are there. I have not written to

thank Lady Lufton. I thought it better not to write. Your sister will understand why, if no one else does. But

you will tell them from me, I am sure, that it was, as they intended, a comfort to us. Your sister knows too

much of us for me to suppose that our great poverty can be a secret from her. And, as far as I am concerned, I

'No; and the feeling of disgrace which does attach itself to being so poor as we are is deadened by the actual

suffering which such poverty brings with it. At least it has become so with me. I am not ashamed to say that I

am very grateful for what you all have done for us at Framley. But you must not say anything to him about it.'

'His spirit is higher than mine, I think, and he suffers more from the natural disinclination which we all have

from receiving alms. Are you going to speak to him about the affairthe cheque, Mr Robarts?'

'But, surely, if he were convinced that it was absolutely necessary for the vindication of his innocence, he

would submit to charge himself with an expense so necessary, not only for himself, but for his family?'

'He will say it ought not to be necessary. You know, Mr Robarts, that in some respects he is not like other

'It is most kind of you to make the attempt. He will be here directly, and when he comes I will leave you

While she was yet speaking his step was heard along the gravelpath, and he hurried into the room with

quick steps. 'I crave your pardon, Mr Robarts,' he said, 'that I should keep you waiting.' now Mr Robarts had

not been there ten minutes, and any such asking of pardon was hardly necessary. And, even in his own house,

Mr Crawley affected a mock humility, as though, either through his own debasement, or because of the

superior station of the other clergyman, he were not entitled to put himself on an equal footing with his

visitor. He would not have shaken hands with Mr Robartsintending to indicate that he did not presume to

do so while the present accusation was hanging over himhad not the action been forced upon him. And

then there was something of a protest in his manner, as though remonstrating against a thing that was

unbecoming to him. Mr Robarts, without analysing it, understood it all, and knew that behind the humility

there was a crushing pridea pride which, in all probability, would rise up and crush him before he could

get himself out of the room again. It was, perhaps, after all, a question whether the man was not served

rightly by the extremities to which he was reduced. There was something radically wrong within him, which

had put him into antagonism with all the world, and which produced these neverdying grievances. There

were many clergymen in the country with incomes as small as that which had fallen to the lot of Mr Crawley,

but they managed to get on without displaying their sores as Mr Crawley displayed his. They did not wear

their old rusty cloaks with all that ostentatious bitterness of poverty which seemed to belong to that garment

when displayed on Mr Crawley's shoulders. Such, for a moment, were Mr Robarts' thoughts, and he almost

repented himself of his present mission. But then he thought of Mrs Crawley, and remembering that her

Mrs Crawley disappeared almost as soon as her husband appeared, and Mr Robarts found himself standing in

front of his friend, who remained fixed to the spot, with his hands folded over each other and his neck bent

slightly forward, in token also of humility. 'I regret,' he said, 'that your horse should be left there, exposed to

'The horse won't mind it a bit,' said Mr Robarts. 'A parson's horse is like a butcher's, and knows he mustn't be

'I never have had one myself,' said Mr Crawley. Now Mr Robarts had had more horses than one before now,

and had been thought by some to have incurred greater expense than was befitting in his stable comforts. The

subject, therefore, was a sore one, and he was worried a little. 'I just wanted to say a few words to you,

Then Mr Robarts sat down, and, swinging his hat between his legs, bethought himself how he should begin

his work. 'We had the archdeacon over at Framley the other day,' he said. 'Of course you know the

'I never had the advantage of any acquaintance with Dr Grantly. Of course I know him well by name, and

'Nay; I can hardly so much as that. But I am aware that his name stands high with many of his order.'

'Exactly; that is what I mean. You know that his judgment is thought more of in clerical matters than that of

'Well, yes. They don't think much of him, I suppose, in the palace. But that won't lower him in your

'I by no means derogate from Dr Grantly's high position in his own archdeaconryto which, as you are

aware, I am not attached nor to criticise his conduct in any respect. It would therefore be unbecoming in

me to do so. But I cannot accept it as a point in a clergyman's favour, that he should be opposed to his

Now this was too much for Mr Robarts. After all that he had heard of the visit paid by Mr Crawley to the

palaceof the venom displayed by Mrs Proudie on that occasion, and of the absolute want of subordination

to episcopal authority which Mr Crawley himself was supposed to have shownMr Robarts did feel it hard

that his friend the archdeacon should be snubbed in this way because he was deficient in reverence for his

bishop! 'I thought, Crawley,' he said, 'that you yourself were inclined to dispute orders coming to you from

'What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very much, Mr Robarts. But I hope that I shall never

'I hope with all my heart you never will; not I either. And the archdeacon, who knows, to the breadth of a

hair, what a bishop ought to do and what he ought not, and what he may do and what he may not, will, I

'Very probably. I am far from contradicting you there. Pray understand, Mr Robarts, that I bring no

'I only mentioned his name, because, as I said, he was over with us the other day at Framley, and we were all

'My affair!' said Mr Crawley. And then came a frown upon his brow, and a gleam of fire into his eyes, which

effectually banished that look of humility which he had assumed. 'And may I ask why the archdeacon was

'I am grateful for the archdeacon's kindness, as a man is bound to be for any kindness, whether displayed

wisely or unwisely. But it seems to me that my affair, as you call it, Mr Robarts, is of that nature that they

who wish well to me will better further their wishes by silence than by any discussion.'

'Then I cannot agree with you.' Mr Crawley shrugged his shoulders, opened his hands a little and then closed

them, and bowed his head. He could not have declared more clearly by any words that he differed altogether

from Mr Robarts, and that as the subject was one so peculiarly his own he had a right to expect that his

opinion should be allowed to prevail against that of any other person. 'If you come to that, you know, how is

'That vain tongues cannot be stopped, I am well aware. I do not expect that people's tongues should be

stopped. I am not saying what men will do, but what good wishes should dictate.'

'Well, perhaps you'll hear me out for a minute.' Mr Crawley again bowed his head. 'Whether we were wise or

'I cannot how they can suppose anything else, knowing, as they do, that the magistrates have committed me

for the theft. This took place at Framley, you say, and probably in Lord Lufton's presence.'

'And Lord Lufton was chairman at the sitting of the magistrates at which I was committed. How can it be that

'I am sure that he has not an idea that you were guilty. Nor yet has Dr Thorne, who was also one of the

'It was all because you had nobody to manage it for you. I thoroughly believe that if you had placed the

matter in the hands of a good lawyer, you would never have heard a word more about it. That seems to be the

'Then in this country a man is to be punished or not, according to ability to fee a lawyer!'

'And presuming an innocent man to have the ability and not the will to do so, he is to be punished, to be

ruined root and branch, self and family, character and pocket, simply because, knowing his own innocence,

he does not choose to depend on the mercenary skill of a man whose trade he abhors for the establishment of

that which should be clear as sun at noonday! You say I am innocent, and yet you tell me I am to be

condemned as a guilty man, have my gown taken from me, be torn from my wife and children, be disgraced

before the eyes of all men, and made a byword and a thing horrible to be mentioned, because I will not fee an

attorney to fee another man to come and lie on my behalf, to browbeat witnesses, to make false appeals, and

perhaps shed false tears in defending me. You have come to me asking me to do this, if I understand you,

'That is my object.' Mr Crawley, as he had spoken, had in his vehemence, risen from his seat, and Mr Robarts

'Then tell the archdeacon,' said Mr Crawley, 'that I will have none of his advice. I will have no one there paid

by me to obstruct the course of justice or to hoodwink a jury. I have been in the courts of law, and know what

is the work for which these gentlemen are hired. I will have none of it, and I will thank you to tell the

archdeacon so, with my respectful acknowledgements of his consideration and condescension. I say nothing

as to my own innocence, or my own guilt. But I do say that if I am dragged before that tribunal, an innocent

man, and am falsely declared to be guilty, because I lack money to bribe a lawyer to speak for me, then the

laws of this country deserve but little of that reverence which we are accustomed to pay them. And if I be

'And if I be guilty,' continued Mr Crawley, altogether ignoring the interruption, except by the repetition of his

words, and a slight raising of his voice, 'I will not add to my guilt by hiring anyone to prove a falsehood or to

'I speak according to what light I have, Mr Robarts; and if I have been overwarm with youand I am

conscious that I have been at fault in that directionI must pray you to remember that I am somewhat hardly

tried. My sorrows and troubles are so great that they rise against me and disturb me, and drive me

'But, my friend, is not that just the reason why you should trust in this matter to someone who can be more

'I cannot trust to anyonein a matter of conscience. To do as you would have me is to me wrong. Shall I do

'I can trust no one with my own conscience;not even the archdeacon, great as he is.'

'I will presume so. I will believe so. I do think so. Tell the archdeacon from me that I humbly thank

him;that in a matter of church question, I might probably submit my judgment to his; even though he

might have no authority over me, knowing as I do that in such matters his experience has been great. Tell him

also, that though I would fain that this unfortunate affair might burden the tongue of none of my

neighboursat least till I shall have stood before the judge to receive the verdict of the jury, and, if needful,

his lordship's sentencestill I am convinced that in what he has spoken, as also in what he has done, he has

not yielded to the idleness of gossip, but has exercised his judgment with intended kindness.'

'He has certainly intended to do you a service; and as for its not being talked about, that is out of the

'And for yourself, Mr Robarts, whom I have ever regarded as a friend since circumstances brought me into

your neighbourhoodfor you, whose sister I love tenderly in memory of past kindness, though now she is

removed so far above my sphere, as to make it unfit I should call her my friend'

'For yourself, as I was saying, pray believe me that though from the roughness of my manner, being now

unused to social intercourse, I seem to be ungracious and forbidding, I am grateful and mindful, and that in

the tablets of my heart I have written you down as one in whom I could trustwere it given to me to trust in

men and women.' Then he turned round with his face to the wall and his back to his visitor, and so remained

till Mr Robarts had left him. 'At any rate, I wish you well through your trouble,' said Robarts; and as he spoke

he found that his own words were nearly choked by a sob that was rising in this throat.

He went away without another word, and got out to his gig without seeing Mrs Crawley. During one period

of the interview he had been very angry with the manso angry as to make him almost declare to himself

that he would take no more trouble on his behalf. Then he had been brought to acknowledge that Mr Walker

was right, and that Crawley was certainly mad. He was so mad, so far removed from the dominion of sound

sense, that no jury could say that he was guilty and that he ought to be punished for his guilt. And, as he so

resolved, he could not but ask himself the question, whether the charge of the parish ought to be left in the

hands of such a man? But, at last, just before he went, these feelings and these convictions gave way to pity,

and he remembered simply the troubles which seemed to have been heaped on the head of this poor victim to

misfortune. As he drove home he resolved that there was nothing left for him to do, but to write to the dean. It

was known by all who knew them both, that the dean and Mr Crawley had lived together on the closest

intimacy at college, and that the friendship had been maintained through life;though, from the peculiarity

of Mr Crawley's character, the two had not been much together of late years. Seeing how things were going

now, and hearing how pitiful was the plight in which Mr Crawley was placed, the dean would, no doubt, feel

it to be his duty to hasten his return to England. He was believed to be at this moment in Jerusalem, and it

would be long before a letter could reach him; but there still wanted three months to the assizes, and his

'Only this, that I have convinced myself that the poor man is to responsible for what he does, and that for her

sake as well as for his own, some person should be enabled to interfere for his protection.' Then he told Mrs

Robarts what Mr Walker had said; also the message which Mr Crawley had sent to the archdeacon. But the

Mrs Thorne had spoken very plainly in the advice which she had given to Major Grantly. That had been Mrs

Thorne's advice; and though Major Grantly had no idea of making the journey so rapidly as the lady had

proposed, still he thought that he would make it before long, and follow the advice in spirit if not to the letter.

Mrs Thorne had asked him if it was fair that the girl should be punished because of the father's fault; and the

idea had been sweet to him that the infliction or noninfliction of such punishment should be in his hands.

'You go and ask her,' Mrs Thorne had said. Well;he would go an ask her. If it should turn out at last that he

had married the daughter of a thief, and that he was disinherited for doing soan arrangement of

circumstances which had to teach himself to regard as very probablehe would not love Grace the less on

that account, or allow himself for one moment to repent what had done. As he thought of all this he became

somewhat in love with a small income, and imagined to himself what honours would be done to him by the

Mrs Thornes of the county, when they should come to know in what way he had sacrificed himself to his

love. Yes;they would go and live in Pau. He thought Pau would do. He would have enough income for

that;and Edith would get lessons cheaply, and would learn to talk French fluently. He certainly would do

it. He would go down to Allington, and ask Grace to be his wife; and bid her to understand that if she loved

him she could not be justified in refusing him by the circumstances of her father's position.

But he must go to Plumstead before he could go to Allington. He was engaged to spend Christmas there, and

must go now at once. There was not time for the journey to Allington before he was due at Plumstead. And,

moreover, though he could not bring himself to resolve that he would tell his father what he was going to do;

'It would seem as though I were asking his leave!' he said to himself;he thought he would make a clean

breast of it to his mother. It made him sad to think that he should cut the rope which fastened his own boat

among the other boats in the home harbour at Plumstead, and that he should go out all alone into strange

watersturned adrift altogether, as it were, from the Grantly fleet. If he could only get the promise of his

mother's sympathy for Grace it would be something. He understoodno one better than hethe tendency of

all his family to an uprising in the world, which tendency was almost as strong in his mother as his father.

And he had been by no means without a similar ambition himself, though with him the ambition had been

only fitful, not enduring. He had a brother, a clergyman, a busy, stirring, eloquent London preacher, who got

churches built, and was heard of far and wide as a rising man, who had married a certain Lady Anne, the

daughter of an earl, and who was already mentioned as a candidate for high places. How his sister was the

wife of a marquis, and a leader in the fashionable world, the reader already knows. The archdeacon himself

was a rich man, so powerful that he could afford to look down upon a bishop; and Mrs Grantly, though there

was left about her something of an old softness of nature, a touch of the former life which had been hers

before the stream of her days had run to gold, yet she, too, had taken kindly to wealth and high standing, and

was by no means one of those who construe literally that passage of scripture which tells of the camel and the

needle's eye. Our Henry Grantly, our major, knew himself to be his mother's favourite childknew himself

to have become so since something of a coolness had grown up between her and her daughter. The

augustness of the daughter had done much to reproduce the old freshness of which I spoke of in the mother's

heart, and had specially endeared to her the son, who, of all her children, was the least subject to the family's

failing. The clergyman, Charles Grantlyhe who had married the Lady Annewas his father's darling in

these days. The old archdeacon would go up to London and be quite happy in his son's house. He met there

the men whom he loved to meet, and heard the talk which he loved to hear. It was very fine, having the

Marquis of Hartletop for his soninlaw, but he had never cared to be much at Lady Hartletop's house.

Indeed, the archdeacon cared to be in no house in which those around him were supposed to be bigger than

himself. Such was the little family fleet from which Henry Grantly was now proposing to sail alone with his

little boattaking Grace Crawley with him at the helm. 'My father is a just man at the bottom,' he said to

But there was still left one of the familynot a Grantly, indeed, but one so nearly allied to them as to have

his boat moored in the same harbourwho, as the major well knew, would thoroughly sympathise with him.

This was old Mr Harding, his mother's fatherthe father of his mother and of his aunt Mrs Arabinwhose

home was now at the deanery. He was also to be at Plumstead during this Christmas, and he at any rate would

give a ready assent to such a marriage as that which the major was proposing to himself. But then poor old

Mr Harding had been thoroughly deficient in that ambition which had served to aggrandize the family into

which his daughter had married. He was a poor old man who, in spite of good friendsfor the late bishop of

the diocese had been his dearest friendhad never risen high in his profession, and had fallen even from the

moderate altitude which he had attained. But he was a man whom all loved who knew him; and it was much

to the credit of his soninlaw the archdeacon, that, with all his tendencies to love rising suns, he had ever

Major Grantly took his daughter with him, and on his arrival at Plumstead she of course was the first object

of attention. Mrs Grantly declared that she had grown immensely. The archdeacon complimented her red

cheeks, and said that Cosby Lodge was as healthy a place as any in the county, while Mr Harding, Edith's

greatgrandfather, drew slowly from his pocket sundry treasures with which he had come prepared for the

delight of the little girl. Charles Grantly and Lady Anne had no children, and the heir of all the Hartletops

was too august to have been trusted to the embraces of her mother's grandfather. Edith, therefore, was all that

he had in that generation, and of Edith he was prepared to be as indulgent as he had been, in their time, of his

grandchildren, the Grantlys, and still was of his grandchildren the Arabins, and before that of his own

daughters. 'She's more like Eleanor than anyone else,' said the old man in a plaintive tone. Now Eleanor was

Mrs Arabin, the dean's wife, and was at this timeif I were to say over forty I do not think I should be

uncharitable. No one else saw the special likeness, but no one else remembered, as Mr Harding did, what

'Yes, my darling, aunt Nelly is in France, and I wish she were at home. Aunt Nelly has been away a long

'So she says in her letters. I heard from her yesterday, and I brought the letter, as I thought you'd like to see it.'

Mrs Grantly took the letter and read it, while her father still played with the child. The archdeacon and the

major were standing together on the rug discussing the shooting at Chaldicotes, as to which the archdeacon

had a strong opinion. 'I'm quite sure that a man with a place like that does more good by preserving than by

leaving it alone. The better head of game he as the richer the county will be generally. It is just the same with

pheasants as it is with sheep and bullocks. A pheasant doesn't cost more than he's worth any more than a

barndoor fowl. Besides, a man who preserves is always respected by the poachers, and the man who doesn't

'More than you think for, perhaps. Look at poor Sowerby, who went on there for years without a shilling.

How he was respected, because he lived as the people around him expected a gentleman to live. Thorne will

'Only think,' exclaimed Mrs Grantly, 'when Eleanor wrote she had not heard of that affair of poor Mr

'I'll read what it says. "I see in Galignani that a clergyman in Barsetshire has been committed for theft. Pray

'No shame at all. If we are to have a thief among us, I'd sooner find him in a bad man than a good one.

'But is it not odd that Eleanor should have heard nothing of it?' said Mrs Grantly.

Mr Harding acknowledged that he had not spoken of it, and then they calculated that perhaps she might not

have received any letter from her husband since the news had reached him. 'Besides, why should he have

mentioned it?' said the major. 'He only knows as yet of the inquiry about the cheque, and can have heard

'Still it seems odd that Eleanor should not have known of it, seeing that we have been talking of nothing else

For two days the major said not a word of Grace Crawley to anyone. Nothing could be more courteous and

complaisant that was his father's conduct to him. Anything that he wanted for Edith was to be done. For

himself there was no trouble which would not be taken. His hunting, and his shooting, and his fishing seemed

to have become matters of paramount consideration to his father. And then the archdeacon became very

confidential about money mattersnot offering anything to his son, which, as he well knew, would be seen

through as palpable bribery and corruptionbut telling him of this little scheme and of that, of one

investment and of another;how he contemplated buying a small property here, and spending a few

thousands on building there. 'Of course it is all for you and your brother,' said the archdeacon, with that

benevolent sadness which is used habitually by fathers on such occasions; 'and I like you to know what it is I

am doing. I told Charles about the London property the last time I was up,' said the archdeacon, 'and there

shall be no difference between him and you, if all goes well.' This was very goodnatured on the

archdeacon's part, and was not strictly necessary, as Charles was the eldest son; but the major understood it

perfectly. 'There shall be an elysium opened to you, if only you will not do that terrible thing of which you

spoke when last you were here.' The archdeacon uttered no such words as these, and did not even allude to

Grace Crawley; but the words were as good as spoken, and had they been spoken ever so plainly the major

could not have understood them more clearly. He was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium before

him. He had had his moment of anxiety, whether his father would or would not make an elder son of his

brother Charles. The whole thing was now put before him plainly. Give up Grace Crawley, and you shall

share alike with your brother. Disgrace yourself by marrying her, and you brother shall have everything.

There was the choice, and it was till open to him to take which side he pleased. Were he never to go near

Grace Crawley again no one would blame him, unless it were Miss Prettyman or Mrs Thorne. 'Fill your glass,

Henry,' said the archdeacon. 'You'd better, I tell you, for there is no more of it left.' Then the major filled his

glass and sipped the wine, and swore to himself that he would go down to Allington at once. What! Did his

father think to bribe him by giving him '20 port? He would certainly go down to Allington, and he would tell

his mother tomorrow morning, or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do. 'Pity it should all be

gone; isn't it, sir?' said the archdeacon to his fatherinlaw. 'It has lasted my time,' said Mr Harding, 'and I'm

very much obliged to it. Dear, dear; how well I remember your father giving the order for it! There were two

pipes, and somebody said it was a heady wine. "If the prebendaries and rectors can't drink it," said your

'Curates indeed!' said the archdeacon. 'It's too good for a bishop, unless it is of the right sort.'

'Your father used to say those things, but with him the poorer the guest the better the cheer. When he had a

'Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious, when one thinks of it! Do you remember how we used to

'Every night regularly;threepenny points, and sixpence on the rubber,' said the archdeacon.

'Dear, dear! How things are changed! And I remember when the clergymen did more of the dancing in

'And a good set they were;gentlemen every one of them. It's well that some of them don't dance

'I sometimes sit and wonder,' said Mr Harding, 'whether your father's spirit ever comes back to the old house

'Well;yes. I think he would, upon the whole. I'm sure of this: he would not disapprove, because the new

ways are changed from his ways. He never thought himself infallible. And do you know, my dear, I am not

sure that it isn't all for the best. I sometimes think that some of us were very idle when we were young. I was,

'Ah, yes; you. But most of us took it very easily. Dear, dear! When I think of it, and see how hard they work

now, and remember what pleasant times we used to haveI don't feel sometimes quite sure.'

'I believe the work was done a great deal better than it is now,' said the archdeacon. 'There wasn't so much

fuss, but there was more reality. And men were men, and clergymen were gentlemen.'

'Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn't have held his head up among us. That's what has

come from Reform. A reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and then your Prime

'There's one glass more, and you shall have it, sir.' Then Mr Harding drank the last of the 1820 port, and they

On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walk by himself. His father had suggested to

him that he should go over to shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of everything the archdeacon

possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns and carriages. But the major would have none of these things. He

would go out and walk by himself. 'He's not thinking of her; is he?' said the archdeacon to his wife, in a

whisper. 'I don't know. I think he is,' said Mrs Grantly. 'It will be so much better for Charles, if he does,' said

the archdeacon grimly; and the look of his face as he spoke was by no means pleasant. 'You will do nothing

unjust, archdeacon,' said his wife. 'I will do as I like with my own,' said he. And then he also went out and

That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollection of old days. They were rather dull, the

three of them, as they sat togetherand dullness is always more endurable than sadness. Old Mr Harding

went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross. 'Henry,' he said, 'you haven't said a word to throw to a dog.' 'I've

got rather a headache this evening, sir,' said the major. The archdeacon drank two glasses of wine, one after

another, quickly. Then he woke his fatherinlaw gently, and went off. 'Is there anything the matter?' asked

the old man. 'Nothing particular. My father seems a little cross.' 'Ah! I've been to sleep, and I oughtn't. It's my

fault. We'll go in and smooth him down.' But the archdeacon wouldn't be smoothed down on that occasion.

He would let his son see the difference between a father pleased, and a father displeasedor rather between

a father pleasant, and a father unpleasant. 'He hasn't said anything to you, has he?' said the archdeacon that

night to his wife. 'Not a word;as yet.' 'If he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall think him a cur,'

said the archdeacon. 'But he did tell you,' said Mrs Grantly, standing up for her favourite son; 'and, for the

matter of that, he has courage enough for anything. If he does it, I shall always say that he has been driven to

'Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing?' said the archdeacon; and as he spoke he banged

On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind to his mother. The archdeacon had gone into

Barchester, having in vain attempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr Harding was in the library reading

a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming of old days and old friends, and perhaps sometimes, of the old

wine. Mrs Grantly was alone in a small sittingroom which she frequented upstairs, when suddenly her son

entered the room. 'Mother,' he said, 'I think it better to tell you that I am going to Allington.'

'To Allington, Henry?' She knew very well who was at Allington, and what must be the business which

'Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances which make it incumbent on me to see her

'As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so now. I owe it to her and to myself that she should

'But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by her father's position?'

'No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such

delay. Of course I am alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon herupon her and me, too, should she

ever become my wife. But it is one of those burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enough to

'Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to her. Then honour would require it of you, as

well as affection. As it is, your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, for all our sakes,

'It will do Edith no harm; and, mother, if you alone were concerned, I think you would feel that it would not

'As for my father, the very threats which he has made make me conscious that I have only to measure the

'But than may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You are the younger son of a man who will be

'I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him that from me, it is all that I wish you to do.'

'No, mother; not till I have been to Allington. Then I will see him again or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop

at Guestwick, and will write to a line from thence. If my father decides on doing anything, let me know at

'I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and I believe I am right. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do

it. I will not ask you now for any promise or pledge; but should Miss Crawley become my wife, I hope that

you at least will not refuse to see her as your daughter.' Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was

about to leave the room; but she held him by his arm, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears. 'Dearest

'For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not threatened me I should have told him also. As he has done so, you

'Oh, Henry; you will be ruined. You will, indeed. Can you not wait? Remember how headstrong your father

is, and how good;and how he loves you! Think of all he that he has done for you. When did he refuse you

'You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right to expect that you will not bring disgrace upon the family.'

'Nor will I;except such disgrace as shall attend upon poverty. Goodbye, mother. I wish you could have

'I would not for the world speak unkindly to you. If it were not for your father I would bid you bring whom

you pleased home to me as your wife; and I would be as a mother to her. And if this girl should become your

Then the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory, as requested by his mother. His own dogcart and servant

When the archdeacon returned the news was told to him at once. 'Henry has gone to Allington to propose to

'He left his love, and said that it was useless remaining, as he knew he should only offend you.'

'He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it,' said the archdeacon. And then there was not another word said

The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted always at ninea liberal nine; and the postman

whose duty it was to deliver letters in that village at halfpast eight, being also liberal in his ideas as to time,

always arrived punctually in the middle of breakfast, so that Mrs Dale expected her letters, and Lily hers, just

before the second cup of tea, as though the letters formed a part of the morning meal. Jane, the maidservant,

always brought them in, and handed them to Mrs Dale for Lily had in these days come to preside at the

breakfast table; and then there would be an examination of the outsides before the envelopes were violated,

and as each party knew pretty well the circumstances of the correspondence of the other, there would be some

guessing as to what this or that epistle might contain; and after that a reading out loud of passages, and not

unfrequently the entire letter. But now, at the time of which I am speaking, Grace Crawley was at the Small

On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the letters as usual, and handed them to Mrs Dale.

Lily was at the time occupied with the teapot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her hands so full as to

be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety. 'Mamma, I'm sure I see two there for me,' she said.

'Only one for you, Lily,' said Mrs Dale. Lily instantly knew from the tone of the voice that some letter had

come, which by the very aspect of the handwriting had disturbing her mother. 'There is one for you, my dear,'

said Mrs Dale, throwing a letter across the table Grace. 'And one for you, Lily, from Bell. The others are for

me.' 'And whom are you yours from, mamma?' asked Lily. 'One is from Mrs Jones; and the other, I think, is a

letter on business.' Then Lily said nothing further, but she observed that her mother only opened one of her

letters at the breakfasttable. Lily was very patient;not be nature, I think, but by exercise and practice. She

had, once in her life, been too much in a hurry; and having then burned herself grievously, she now feared the

fire. She did not therefore follow her mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemming

diligently at certain articles of clothing which were intended for use in the Hogglestock parsonage. The two

girls were making a set of new shirts for Mr Crawley. 'But I know he will ask where they come from,' said

Grace; 'and then mamma will be scolded.' 'But I hope he'll wear them,' said Lily. 'Sooner of later he will,' said

Grace; 'because mamma manages generally to have her way at last.' Then they went on for an hour or so,

talking about the home affairs at Hogglestock. But during the whole time Lily's mind was intent upon her

Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing when they walked out after lunch, for Lily was very patient.

But during the walk Mrs Dale became aware that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched each other

unconsciously with a closeness which hardly allowed a glance of the eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to

pass unobserved. To Mrs Dale it was everything in the world that her daughter should be, if not happy at

heart, at least tranquil; and to Lily, who knew that her mother was always thinking of her, and of her alone,

her mother was the only human divinity now worthy of adoration. But nothing was said about the letter

When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit to sit up for a while without candles, talking,

till the evening had in truth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idleness of remaining without candles

was apparent. During this time, Lily, demanding patience of herself all the while, was thinking what she

would do, or rather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing would be done or said in the presence

of Grace Crawley was a matter of course, nor would she do or say anything to get rid of Grace. She would be

And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got up and left the room. Lily still waited for a few minutes,

and, in order that he patience might be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two about her sister Bell;

how the eldest child's whoopingcough was nearly well, and how the baby was doing wonderful things with

its first tooth. But as Mrs Dale had already seen Bell's letter, all this was not intensely interesting. At last Lily

came to the point and asked her question. 'Mamma, from whom was that other letter which you got this

Our story will perhaps be best told by communicating the letter to the reader before it was discussed with

I should have said that Mrs Dale had not opened the letter till she had found herself in the solitude of her own

bedroom; and that then, before doing so, she had examined the handwriting with anxious eyes. When she first

received it she thought she knew the writer, but was not sure. Then she had glanced at the impression over the

fastening, and had known at once from whom the letter had come. It was from Mr Crosbie, the man who had

brought so much trouble into her house, who had jilted her daughter; the only man in the world whom she

had a right to regard as a positive enemy to herself. She had not doubt about it, as she tore the envelope open;

and yet, when the address given made her quite sure, a new feeling of shivering came upon her, and she asked

herself whether it might not be better that she should send his letter back to him without reading it. But she

'MADAM,' the letter began 'You will be very much surprised to hear from me, and I am quite aware that I

am not entitled to the ordinary courtesy of an acknowledgement from you, should you be pleased to throw my

letter on some side as unworthy of your notice. But I cannot refrain from addressing you, and must leave it to

'I will only refer to that episode of my life with which you are acquainted, for the sake of acknowledging my

great fault and of assuring you that I did not go unpunished. It would be useless for me now to attempt to

explain to you the circumstances which led me into that difficulty which ended in so great a blunder; but I

'But I will come to my point at once. You are, no doubt, aware that I married the daughter of Lord De

Courcy, and that I was separated from my wife a few weeks after our unfortunate marriage. It is now

something over twelve months since she died at Baden Baden in her mother's house. I never saw her since

the day we first parted. I have not a word to say against her. The fault was mine in marrying a woman whom I

did not love and had never loved. When I married Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your daughter.

'I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter once loved me. From the day on which I last wrote

to you that terrible letter which told you of my fate, I have never mentioned the name of Lily Dale to human

ears. It has been too sacred for my mouthtoo sacred for the intercourse of any friendship with which I have

been blessed. I now use it for the first time to you, in order that I may ask whether it be possible that her old

love should ever live again. Mine has lived alwayshas never faded for an hour, making me miserable

during the last years that have passed since I saw her, but capable of making me very happy, if I may be

'You will understand my purpose now as well as though I were to write pages. I have no scheme formed in

my head for seeing your daughter again. How can I dare to form a scheme, when I am aware that the chance

of success must be so strong against me? But if you will tell me that there can be a gleam of hope, I will obey

any commands that you can put upon me in any way that you may point out. I am free againand she is free.

I love her with all my heart, and seem to long for nothing in the world but that she should become my wife.

Whether any of her old love may still abide with her, you will know. If it do, it may even yet prompt her to

forgive one, who, in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true to her in heart.

This was the letter which Mrs Dale had received, and as to which she had not as yet said a word to Lily, or

even made up her mind whether she would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and daughter loved each

other, thorough as was the confidence between them, yet the name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been

mentioned between them oftener, perhaps, than halfadozen times since the blow had been struck. Mrs Dale

knew that their feelings about the man were altogether different. She, herself, not only condemned him for

what he had done, believing it to be impossible that any shadow of excuse could be urged for his offence,

thinking that the fault had shown the man to be mean beyond redemptionbut she had allowed herself

actually to hate him. He had in one sense murdered her daughter, and she believed that she could never

forgive him. But, Lily, as her mother well knew, had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses for him

which cleansed his sin of all its blackness in her own eyes, and was to this day anxious as ever for his welfare

and his happiness. Mrs Dale feared that Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was she not bound to

show her this letter? Lily was old enough to judge for herselfold enough, and wise enough too. Mrs Dale

told herself halfascore of times that morning that she could not be justified in keeping the letter from her

But yet much she wished that the letter had never been written, and would have given very much to be able to

put it out of the way without injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossible that Lily should be

happy marrying such a man. Such a marriage now would be, as Mrs Dale thought, a degradation to her

daughter. A terrible injury had been done to her; but such reparation as this would, in Mrs Dale's eyes, only

make the injury deeper. And yet Lily loved the man; and, loving him, how could she resist the temptation of

his offer? 'Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got this morning? Lily asked. For a few moments

Mrs Dale remained silent. 'Mamma,' continued Lily, 'I think I know whom it was from. If you tell me to ask

'I knew it. I cannot tell you why, but I knew it. And now, mamma;am I to read it?'

'Listen to me a moment first. For myself, I wish that the letter had never been written. It tells badly for the

man, as I think of it. I cannot understand how any man could have brought himself to address either you or

Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat motionless, holding it. 'You think, mamma, I ought not to read it?'

'I shall do nothing;or, perhaps, I should in such a case acknowledge it, and tell him that we have nothing

Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motionless, with the letter in her hand. 'Mamma,' she said at last,

'if you tell me not to read it, I will give it back to you unread. If you bid me exercise my own judgment, I

'You must exercise your own judgment,' said Mrs Dale. Then Lily got up from her chair and walked slowly

out of the room, and went to her mother's chamber. The thoughts which passed through Mrs Dale's mind

while her daughter was reading the letter were very sad. She could find no comfort anywhere. Lily, she had

told herself, would surely give way to this man's renewed expressions of affection, and she, Mrs Dale herself,

would be called upon to give her child to a man whom she could neither love nor respect; who, for aught

she knew, she could never cease to hate. And she could not bring herself to believe that Lily could be happy

with such a man. As for her own life, desolate as it would beshe cared little for that. Mothers know that

their daughters will leave them. Even widowed mothers, mothers with but one child leftsuch a one as was

this motherare aware that they will be left alone, and they can bring themselves to welcome the sacrifice

of themselves with something of satisfaction. Mrs Dale and Lily had, indeed, of late become bound together

especially, so that the mother had been justified in regarding the link which joined them as being firmer than

that by which most daughters are bound to their mothers;but in all that she would have found no regret.

Even now, in these very days, she was hoping that Lily might yet be brought to give herself to John Eames.

But she could not, after all that was come and gone, be happy in thinking that Lily should be given to

When Mrs Dale went upstairs to her own room before dinner Lily was not there; nor were they alone together

again that evening except for a moment, when Lily, as usual, went into her mother's room when she was

undressing. But neither of them then said a word about the letter. Lily during dinner and throughout the

evening had borne herself well, giving no sign of special emotion, keeping to herself entirely her own

thoughts about the proposition made to her. And afterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabrication

of Mr Crawley's shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. And yet there was not a moment in

which she was not thinking of it. To Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word. 'I wonder

whether it can ever come to a person to be so placed that there can be no doing right, let what will be

'I am something near it,' said Lily, 'but perhaps if I look long enough I shall see the light.'

'I hope that it will be a happy light at last,' said Grace, who thought that Lily was referring only to John

At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing to her mother about the letter; and then what she said was

'Then I will talk it over with you tomorrow. It wants some thinking;does it not, mamma?'

'But then, mamma, you are not I. Believing as I believe, feeling as I feel, it wants some thinking. That's what

'You shall help metomorrow.' The morrow came and Lily was still very patient; but she had prepared

herself, and had prepared the time also, so that in the hour of the gloaming she was alone with her mother,

and sure that she might remain alone with her for an hour or so. 'Mamma, sit there,' she said; 'I will sit down

here, and then I can lean against you and be comfortable. You can bear as much of me as thatcan't you,

mamma?' Then Mrs Dale put her arm over Lily's shoulder, and embraced her daughter. 'And now, mamma,

'But you must have something to say about it, mamma. You must bring yourself to have something to

'I don't mean that you will hurt me, or not give me any foodor that you will not go on caring about me

more than anything else in the whole world ten times over' And Lily as she spoke, tightened the embrace

of her mother's arm round her neck. I'm not afraid you'll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart

so as to be able to mention his name and talk about him, and tell me what I ought to do. You must see with

my eyes, and hear with my ears, and feel with my heart;and then, when I know that you have done that, I

'Yes;because you won't see with my eyes and hear with my ears. That's what I call being hard. Though you

should feed me with blood from your breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless you could give me also

the sympathy which I demand from you. You see, mamma, we have never allowed ourselves to speak of this

'Only because we have been thinking of him. Out of the full heart the mouth speaketh;that is, the mouth

'I have never blamed you, mamma; never, even in my heart. I have known how good and gracious and sweet

you have been. But I have often accused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed his name to cross

my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of forgetting such an accident as that is a farce. And as for fostering

the memory of it! Do you think that I have ever spent a night from that time to this without thinking of

him? Do you imagine that I have ever crossed our own lawn, or gone down through the gardenpath there,

without thinking of the times when he and I walked there together? There needs no fostering for such

memories as those. They are weeds which will go rank and strong though nothing be done to foster them.

There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them. You cannot kill them if you would, and they

'I have thought it very long; but the truth is, mamma, that this nonfostering of memories, as you call it, has

not been the real cause of our silence. We have not spoken of Mr Crosbie because we have not thought alike

about him. Had you spoken you would have spoken with anger, and I could not endure to hear him abused.

'Now you must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We must talk of him, because something must be

done about his letter. Even it be left unanswered, it cannot be so left without discussion. And yet you must

'No, mamma; you are not to think that; but you are to look upon his fault as a fault that has been forgiven.'

'But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why should I not speak of it? You will go to heaven, and yet I

suppose you have been very wicked, because we are all very wicked. But you won't be told of your

wickedness there. You won't be hated there, because you were this or that when you were here.'

'No; I don't think so. We ask to be forgiven just as we forgive. That is the way in which we hope to be

forgiven, and therefore it is the way in which we ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at night,

'But if you and I are forgiven only after that fashion we shall never get to heaven.' Lily paused for some

further answer from her mother, but as Mrs Dale was silent she allowed that portion of the subject to pass as

completed. 'And now, mamma, what answer do you think we ought to send to his letter?'

'My dear, how am I to say? You know I have said already that if I could act on my own judgment, I would

'Come, Lily, say what you think yourself. We shall get on better when you have brought yourself to speak.

'Stop a moment, mamma. There are two persons here to be consideredor rather, three.'

'I know you would not; but never mind, and let me go on. The three of us are concerned, at any rate; you, he,

and I. I am thinking of him now. We have all suffered, but I do believe that hitherto he has had the worst of

'Mamma, how can you go back in that way? We have agreed that that should be regarded as done and gone.

He has been very unhappy, and now we see what remedy he proposes to himself for his misery. Do I flatter

As this was said, Lily turned round slowly and looked up into her mother's face. 'Mamma,' she said, 'that is

very cruel. I did not think you could be so cruel. How can you, who believe him to be so selfish, think that?'

'It is very hard to judge of men's motives. I have never supposed him to be so black that he would not wish to

'Who can look into a man's heart and judge all the sources of his actions? There are mixed feelings there, no

doubt. Remorse for what he has done; regret for what he has lost;something, perhaps, of the purity of love.'

'But when a horse kicks and bites, you know his nature and do not go near him. When a man has cheated you

once, you think he will cheat you again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to gather grapes from

'I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand with thorns in looking for them.'

'Now, mamma, see how different we are; or, rather, how different it is when one judges for oneself or

another. If it were simply myself, and my own future fate in life, I would trust him with it all tomorrow,

without a word. I should go to him as a gambler goes to the gamingtable, knowing that I lose everything, I

could hardly be poorer than I was before. But I should have a better hope than the gambler is justified in

having. That, however, is not my difficulty. And when I think of him I can see a prospect for success for the

gambler. I think so well of myself that, loving him, as I do;yes, mamma, do not be uneasy;loving him as

I do, I believe I could be a comfort to him. I think that he might be better with me than without me. That is,

he would be so, if he could teach himself to look back upon the past as I can do, and to judge of me as I can

'But he would have, were I to marry him now. He would condemn me because I had forgiven him. He would

condemn me because I had borne what he had done to me, and had still loved himloved him through it all.

He would feel and know the weaknessand there is weakness. I have been weak in not being able to rid

myself of him altogether. He would recognise this after a while, and would despise me for it. But he would

not see what there is of devotion to him in my being able to bear the taunts of the world in going back to him,

and to your taunts, and my own taunts. I should have to bear his alsonot spoken aloud, but to be seen in his

face and heard in his voiceand that I could not endure. If he despised me, and he would, that would make

us both unhappy. Therefore, mamma, tell him not to come; tell him that he can never come; but, if it be

possible, tell him tenderly.' Then she got up and walked away, as though she were going out of the room, but

'No, mamma, no. I have been looking for the light ever since I read his letter, and I think I see it. And now,

mamma, I will make a clean breast of it. From the moment in which I heard that that poor woman was dead, I

have been in a state of flutter. It has been weak of me, and silly, and contemptible. But I could not help it. I

kept on asking myself whether he would ever think of me now. Well; he has answered the question; and has

so done it that he has forced upon me the necessity of a resolution. I have resolved, and I believe that I shall

'Mrs Dale presents her compliments to Mr Crosbie, and begs to assure him that it will not now be possible

that he should renew the relations which were broken off three years ago, between him and Mrs Dale's

family.' It was very short, certainly, and it did not by any means satisfy Mrs Dale. But she did not know how

to say more without saying too much. The object of her letter was to save him the trouble of a futile

perseverance, and them from the annoyance of persecution; and this she wished to do without mentioning her

daughter's name. And she was determined that no word should escape her in which there was any touch of

severity, any hint of an accusation. So much she owed to Lily in return for all that Lily was prepared to

abandon. 'There is my note,' she said at last, offering it to her daughter. 'I did not mean to see it,' said Lily,

'and, mamma, I will not read it now. Let it go. I know you have been good and have not scolded him.' 'I have

Mr John Eames of the IncomeTax Office, had in three days risen so high in that world that people in the

westend of town, and very respectable people toopeople living in South Kensington, in neighbourhoods

not far from Belgravia, and in very handsome houses round Bayswaterwere glad to ask him out to dinner.

Money had been left to him by an earl, and rumour had of course magnified that money. He was a private

secretary, which is in itself a great advance on being a mere clerk. And he had become the particular intimate

friend of an artist who had pushed himself into high fashion during the last year or twoone Conway

Dalrymple, whom the rich English world was beginning to pet and pelt with gilt sugarplums, and who

seemed to take very kindly to petting and gilt sugarplums. I don't know whether the friendship of Conway

Dalrymple had not done as much to secure John Eames his position at the Bayswater dinnertables, as had

either the private secretaryship, or the earl's money; and yet, when they had first know each other, now only

two or three years ago, Conway Dalrymple had been the poorer man of the two. Some chance had brought

them together, and they had lived in the same room for nearly two years. This arrangement had been broken

up, and the Conway Dalrymple of these days had a studio of his own, somewhere near Kensington Palace,

where he painted portraits of young countesses, and in which he had even painted a young duchess. It was the

peculiar merit of his picturesso at least said the artloving worldthat though the likeness was always

good, the stiffness of the modern portrait was never there. There was also ever some story told in Dalrymple's

pictures over and above the story of the portraiture. This countess was drawn as a fairy with wings, that

countess as a goddess with a helmet. The thing took for a time, and Conway Dalrymple was picking up his

On a certain day he and John Eames were to dine out together at a certain house in that Bayswater district. It

was a large mansion, if not made of stone yet looking very stony, with thirty windows at least, all of them

with cutstone frames, requiring, let me say, at least four thousand a year for its maintenance. And its owner,

Dobbs Broughton, a man very well known both in the City and over the grass in Northamptonshire, was

supposed to have a good deal more than four thousand a year. Mrs Dobbs Broughton, a very beautiful

woman, who certainly was not yet thirtyfive, let her worst enemies say what they might, had been painted

by Conway Dalrymple as a Grace. There were, of course, three Graces in the picture, but each Grace was Mrs

Dobbs Broughton repeated. We all know how Graces stand sometimes; two Graces looking one way, and one

the other. In this picture, Mrs Dobbs Broughton as centre Grace looked you full in the face. For this pretty toy

Mr Conway Dalrymple had picked up a gilt sugarplum to the tune of six hundred pounds, and had,

moreover, won the heart of both Mr and Mrs Dobbs Broughton. 'Upon my word, Johnny,' Dalrymple had said

to his friend, 'he's a deuced good fellow, has really a good glass of claretwhich is getting rarer and rarer

every dayand will mount you for a day, whenever you please, down Market Harboro'. Come and dine with

them.' Johnny Eames condescended, and did go and dine with Mr Dobbs Broughton. I wonder whether he

remembered, when Conway Dalrymple was talking of the rarity of good claret, how much beer the young

painter used to drink when they were out together in the country, as they used to do occasionally, three years

ago; and how the painter had then been used to complain that bitter cost threepence a glass, instead of

twopence, which had hitherto been the recognised price of the article. In those days the sugarplums had not

Johnny Eames and his friend went together to the house of Mr Dobbs Broughton. As Dalrymple lived close

to the Broughtons, Eames picked him up in a cab. 'Filthy things, these cabs are,' said Dalrymple, as he got

'Foul things,' said Conway. 'Don't you feel what a draught comes in here because the glass is cracked. I'd have

'If you could always have it standing ready round the corner,' said the artist, 'it would be delightful. But one

They were a little latea little later than they should have been had they considered that Eames was to be

introduced to his new acquaintances. But he had already lived long enough before the world to be quite at his

ease in such circumstances, and he entered Mrs Broughton's drawingroom with his pleasantest smile upon

his face. But as he entered he saw a sight which made him look serious in spite of his efforts to the contrary.

Mr Adolphus Crosbie, secretary to the Board at the General Committee Office, was standing on the rug

'Who will be there?' Eames had asked of his friend, when the suggestion to go and dine with Dobbs

'Impossible to say,' Conway had replied. 'A certain horrible fellow by the name of Musselbro, will almost

certainly be there. He always is when they have anything of a swell dinnerparty. He is a sort of partner of

Broughton's in the City. He wears a lot of chains, and has elaborate whiskers, and an elaborate waistcoat,

'Well, yes; Musselbro is objectionable. He's very goodhumoured you know, and goodlooking in a sort of

way, and goes everywhere; that is among people of this sort. Of course he's not handandglove with Lord

Derby; and I wish he could be make to wash his hands. They haven't any other standing dish, and you may

meet anybody. They always have a Member of Parliament; they generally manage to catch a Baronet; and I

So instructed, Eames, on entering that room, looked round at once for Mr Musselbro. 'If I don't see the

whiskers and chain,' he had said, I shall know there's a Peer.' Mr Musselbro was in the room, but Eames had

There was no reason for confusion on his part in meeting Crosbie. They had both loved Lily Dale. Crosbie

might have been successful, but for his own fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into contact with

him, and on that occasion had quarrelled with him and had beaten him, giving him a black eye, and in this

way obtained some mastery over him. There was no reason why he should be ashamed of meeting Crosbie;

and yet, when he saw him, the blood mounted all over his face, and he forgot to make any further search for

'I am so much obliged to Mr Dalrymple for bringing you,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton very sweetly, 'only he

ought to have come sooner. Naught man! I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss Demolines down? Miss

Mr Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had not welcomed our hero very cordially. He was beginning

to think that Conway gave himself airs and did not sufficiently understand that a man who had horses at

Market Harboro' and '41 Lafitte was at any rate as good as a painter who was pelted with gilt sugarplums for

painting countesses. But he was a man whose illhumour never lasted long, and he was soon pressing his

But there was a few minutes before they went down to dinner, and Johnny Eames, as he endeavoured to find

something to say to Miss Demolineswhich was difficult, as he did not in the least know Miss Demolines'

line of conversationwas aware that his efforts were impeded by thoughts of Mr Crosbie. The man looked

older than when he had last seen himso much older that Eames was astonished. He was bald, or becoming

bald; and his whiskers were grey, or were becoming grey, and he was much fatter. Johnny Eames, who was

always thinking of Lily Dale, could not now keep himself from thinking of Adolphus Crosbie. He saw at a

glance that the man was in mourning, though there was nothing but his shirtstuds by which to tell it; and he

knew that he was in mourning for his wife. 'I wish she might have lived for ever,' Johnny said to himself.

He had not yet been definitely called upon by the entrance of the servant to offer his arm to Miss Demolines,

'Mr Eames,' said he, 'it is some time since we met.' And he offered his hand to Johnny.

'Yes, it is' said Johnny, accepting the proffered salutation. 'I don't know exactly how long, but ever so long.'

'I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with you,' said Crosbie; and then he retired, as it had

become his duty to wait with his arm ready for Mrs Dobbs Broughton. Having married an earl's daughter he

was selected for that honour. There was a barrister in the room, and Mrs Dobbs Broughton ought to have

known better. As she professed to be guided in such matters by the rules laid down by the recognised

authorities, she ought to have been aware that a man takes no rank from his wife. But she was entitled I think

to merciful consideration for her error. A woman situated as was Mrs Dobbs Broughton cannot altogether

ignore these terrible rules. She cannot let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must select someone for

the honour of her arm. And amidst the intricacies of rank how is it possible for woman to learn and to

remember everything? If Providence would only send Mrs Dobbs Broughton a Peer for every dinnerparty,

the thing would go more easily; but what woman will tell me, offhand, which should go out of a room first;

a C.B., and Admiral of the Blue, the Dean of Barchester, or the Dean of Arches? Who is to know who was

everybody's father? How am I to remember that young Thompson's progenitor was made a baronet and not a

knight when he was Lord Mayor? Perhaps Mrs Dobbs Broughton ought to have known that Mr Crosbie could

have gained nothing by his wife's rank, and the barrister may be considered to have been not immoderately

severe when he simply spoke of her afterwards as the silliest and most ignorant old woman he had ever met

in his life. Eames with the lovely Miss Demolines on his arm was the last to move before the hostess. Mr

Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with old Lady Demolines. There was no doubt about Lady

Demolinesas his wife had told him, because her title marked her. Her husband had been a physician in

Paris, and had been knighted in consequence of some benefit supposed to have been done to some French

scion of royaltywhen such scions in France were royal and not imperial. Lady Demolines' rank was not

As he went downstairs Eames was still thinking of his meeting with Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a

word to his neighbour, and his neighbour had not said a word to him. Now Johnny understood dinners quite

well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among whom six are ladies, everything depends of your next

neighbour, and generally on the next neighbour who specially belongs to you; and as he took his seat he was

a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next two hours. On his other hand sat Mrs Ponsonby, the barrister's

wife, and he did not much like the look of Mrs Ponsonby. She was fat, heavy, and goodlooking; with a

broad space between her eyes, and light smooth hair;a youthful British matron every inch of her, of whom

any barrister with a young family of children might be proud. Now Miss Demolines, though she was hardly

to be called beautiful, was at any rate remarkable. She had large, dark, wellshaped eyes, and very dark hair,

which she wore tangled about in an extraordinary manner, and she had an expressive facea face made

expressive by the owner's will. Such power of expression is often attained by dint of labourthough it never

reaches to the expression of anything in particular. She was almost sufficiently goodlooking to be justified

But Miss Demolines, though she had said nothing as yet, knew her game very well. A lady cannot begin

conversation to any good purpose in the drawingroom, when she is seated and the man is standing;nor

can she know then how the table may subsequently arrange itself. Powder may be wasted, and often is

wasted, and the spirit rebels against the necessity of commencing a second enterprise. But Miss Demolines,

when she found herself seated, and perceived that on the other side of her was Mr Ponsonby, a married man,

commenced her enterprise at once, and our friend John Eames was immediately aware that he would have no

'Don't you like winter dinnerparties?' began Miss Demolines. This was said just as Johnny was taking his

seat, and he had time to declare that he liked dinnerparties at all periods of the year if the dinner was good

and the people pleasant before the host had muttered something which was intended to be understood to be a

grace. 'But I mean specially the winter,' continued Miss Demolines. 'I don't think daylight should ever be

admitted at a dinnertable; and though you may shut out the daylight, you can't shut out the heat. And then

there are always so many other things to go to in May and June and July. Dinners should be stopped by Act

of Parliament for those three months. I don't care what people do afterwards, because we always fly away on

'I'm sure what I say would be for the good of society;but at this time of the year a dinner is warm and

'And people get to know each other';in saying which Miss Demolines looked very pleasantly into Johnny's

'There is a great deal in that,' said he. 'I wonder whether you and I will get to know each other.'

'Time alone can tell. But, Mr Eames, I see that Mr Crosbie is a friend of yours.'

'I know very well that men are friends when they step up and shake hands with each other. It is the same

'When I see women kiss, I always think there is deep hatred at the bottom of it.'

'And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr Crosbie for anything I know to the contrary,' said Miss

'Ah; then I know he is your bosom friend, and that you will tell him anything I say. What a strange history

'So I have heard;but he is not quite bosom friend enough with me to have told me all the particulars. I

'Wellperhaps not. But it's ever so long ago;quite long enough for him to be married again. Did you

'I knew hernot well indeed; but I am intimate with her sister, Lady Amelia Gazebee, and I have met her

there. None of that family have married what you may call well. And now, Mr Eames, pray look at the menu

and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me a little dinner of my own, out of the great bill of fare provided. I

always expect some gentleman to do that for me. Mr Crosbie, you know, only lived with his wife for one

'And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. He doesn't look that sort of man, does he?'

'Why, such a regular Bluebeard! Of course you know how he treated another girl before he married Lady

Alexandrina. She died of itwith a broken heart; absolutely died; and there he is, indifferent as

Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale, took up the card of the

dinner and went to work in earnest, recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. 'But you

'Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are much more fit to do it.' And she did choose his

They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladies and gentlemen should alternate themselves

properly, Mr Musselboro was opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs Van Siever, the

widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quantity

as from the nature of the wiggeries she wore. She had not only a false front, but long false curls, as to which

it cannot be conceived that she would suppose that anyone would be ignorant as to their falseness. She was

very thin, too, and very small, and putting aside her wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes. She was a

ghastly old woman to the sight, and not altogether pleasant in her mode of talking. She seemed to know Mr

Musselboro very well, for she called him by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as a

'Why doesn't What'shisname have real silver forks?' she said to him. Now Mrs What'shisnameMrs

Dobbs Broughton we will call herwas sitting on the other side of Mr Musselboro, between him and Mr

Crosbie; and, so placed, Mr Musselboro found it rather hard to answer the question, more especially as he

'What's the use?' said Mr Musselboro. 'Everybody has these plated things now. What's the use of a lot of

'Everybody doesn't. I don't. You know as well as I do, Musselboro, that the appearance of the thing goes for a

great deal. Capital isn't lying dead as long as people know that you've got it.'

Before answering this Mr Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs Dobbs Broughton would probably hear

his reply. 'You won't find that there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton,' he said.

'I shan't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what people told me. I think there are sillier folks in

the City than anywhere else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which the young man painted?'

'You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean the one with the three naked women?' Mr Musselboro glanced

around with one eye, and felt sure that Mrs Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But the old woman was

'Six hundred pounds, I believe,' said Mr Musselboro, looking straight before him as he answered, and

'Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And yet he hasn't got silver spoons. How things are changed! Tell

Mr Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs Dobbs Broughton. 'A Mr John Eames, Mrs Van Siever,' said Mrs

Dobbs Broughton, whispering across the front of Mr Musselboro. 'He is private secretary to

LordLordLord I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know. And he had a great fortune left him the

'All among the lords, I see,' said Mrs Van Siever. Then Mrs Dobbs Broughton drew herself back,

remembering some little attack which had been made on her by Mrs Van Siever when she herself had had the

There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sitting between Crosbie and Conway Dalrymple. Conway Dalrymple

had been specially brought there to sit next to Miss Van Siever. 'There's no knowing how much she'll have,'

said Mrs Dobbs Broughton, in the warmth of their friendship. 'But it's all real. It is, indeed,. The mother is

'Indeed she is, Conway.' Mrs Dobbs Broughton had got into a way of calling her young friend by his

Christian name. 'All the world calls him Conway,' she had said to her husband once when her husband had

caught her doing so. 'She is awful. Her husband made the business in the City, when things were very

different from what they are now, and I can't help having her. She has transactions of business with Dobbs.

'But why shouldn't she? She has nobody else. You might offer to paint her, you know. She'd make an

Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willingness to meet Miss Van Siever, saying something, however, as to

his present position being one which did not admit of any matrimonial speculation. Then Mrs Dobbs

Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that he was altogether wrong, and that were he to forget

himself, or commit himself, or misbehave himself, there must be an end to their pleasant intimacy. In answer

to which, Mr Dalrymple had said that his Grace was surely of all Graces the least gracious. And now he had

Miss Van Siever, who at this time had perhaps reached her twentyfifth year, was certainly a handsome

young woman. She was fair and large, bearing no likeness whatever to her mother. Her features were regular,

and her full, clear eyes had a brilliance of their own, looking at you always steadfastly and boldly, though

very seldom pleasantly. Her mouth would have been beautiful had it not been too strong for feminine beauty.

Her teeth were perfecttoo perfectlooking like miniature walls of carved ivory. She knew the fault of this

perfection, and showed her teeth as little as she could. Her nose and chin were finely chiselled, and her head

stood well upon her shoulders. But there was something hard about it all which repelled you. Dalrymple,

when he saw her, recoiled from her, not outwardly, but inwardly. Yes, she was handsome, as may be horse or

a tiger; but there was about her nothing of feminine softness. He could not bring himself to think of taking

Clara Van Siever as the model that was to sit before him for the rest of his life. He certainly could make a

picture of her, as had been suggested by his friend, Mrs Broughton, but it must be as Judith with the

dissevered head, of as Jael using her hammer over the temple of Sisera. Yeshe thought she would do as

Jael; and if Mrs Van Siever would throw him a sugarplumfor he would want the sugarplum, seeing that

any other result was out of the question the thing might be done. Such was the idea of Mr Conway

At first he found it hard to talk to her. She answered him, and not with monosyllables. But she answered him

without sympathy, or apparent pleasure in talking. Now the young artist was in the habit of being flattered by

ladies, and expected to have his small talk made very easy for him. He liked to give himself little airs, and

was not generally disposed to labour very hard at the task of making himself agreeable.

'Were you ever painted yet?' he asked after they had both been sitting silent for two or three minutes.

'I don't mean rouged, or enamelled, or got up by Madame Rachel; but have you ever had your portrait taken?'

'That's why I asked you if you had been paintedso as to make some little distinction between the two. I am

'I never did. I never thought of doing so. One does those things at the instigation of one's intimate

'Well, yes; my intimate friend is my mother, and she would never dream of such a thing. She hates pictures.'

'Good heavens; how cruel! I suppose there is some story attached to it. There has been some fatal

'Nothing of the kind, Mr Dalrymple. It is merely the fact that her sympathies are with ugly things, rather than

with pretty things. I think she loves the mahogany dinnertable better than anything else in the house; and

'I did not speak for myself. I think the world would be very much the poorer. I am very fond of ancient

'They are easier understood than the modern, I can tell you. Perhaps you don't care for modern pictures?'

'Not in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivil, you have brought it on yourself. But I do not in truth mean

anything derogatory to the painters of the day. When their pictures are old, theythat is the good ones

'Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all things. The colours of new paintings are so glaring, and the

faces are so bright and selfconscious, that they look to me when I go to the exhibition like coloured prints in

a child's new picturebook. It is the same thing with buildings. One sees all the points, and nothing is left to

'I hope so, at any rate, I am not a sham one' and Miss Van Siever as she said this looked very savage.

'Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. Who can undertake to say that he is not a sham in

As she said this the ladies were getting up. So Miss Van Siever also got up, and left Mr Conway Dalrymple

to consider whether he could say or could think of himself that he was not a sham in anything. As regarded

Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think that he could not object to paint her portrait, even though there

might be no sugarplum. He would certainly do it as Jael; and he would, if he dared, insert dimly in the

background some idea of the face of the mother, halfappearing, halfvanishing, as the spirit of the sacrifice.

He was composing the picture, while Mr Dobbs Broughton was arranging himself and his bottles.

'Musselboro,' he said, 'I'll come up between you and Crosbie. Mr Eames, though I run away from you, the

claret shall remain; or, rather, it shall flow backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will.'

'Do; there's a good fellow. It's a nice glass of wine isn't it? Old Ramsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as

any winemerchant in London, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he'd a lot of tidy Bordeaux. It's

'What was the figure, Broughton?' said Crosbie, asking the question which he knew was expected.

'Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then; it's worth a hundred and twenty now. I wouldn't sell a

bottle of it for any money. Come, Dalrymple, pass it round; but fill your glass first.'

'I thought you particularly told me to drink his claret?' said Johnny to his friend afterwards.

'So I did,' said Conway; 'and wonderfully good wine it is. But I make it a rule never to eat or drink anything

Before he went, Johnny Eames had been specially invited to call on Lady Demolines, and had said that he

would do so. 'We live in Porchester Gardens,' said Miss Demolines. 'Upon my word, I believe that the farther

London stretches in that direction, the farther mamma will go. She thinks the air so much better. I know it's a

Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on Mrs Van Siever, but before he left the house he did say a

word or two more to his friend Mrs Broughton as to Clara Van Siever. 'She is a fine young woman,' he said;

'Yes; I have found it out. I do not doubt that some day she'll murder her husband or her mother, or startle the

world by some newlyinvented crime; but that only makes her the more interesting.'

'And when you add to that all the old woman's money,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton, 'you think that she might

'For a picture, certainly. I'm speaking of her simply as a model. Could we not manage it? Get her once here,

without her mother knowing it, or Broughton, or anyone. I've got the subject Jael and Sisera, you know. I

should like to put Musselboro in as Sisera, with the nail half driven in.' Mrs Dobbs Broughton declared that

the scheme was a great deal too wicked for her participation, but at last she promised to think of it.

'You might as well come up and have a cigar,' Dalrymple said, as he and his friend left Mrs Broughton's

house. Johnny said that he would go up and have a cigar or two. 'And now tell me what you think if Mrs

'Well; I'll tell you what I think of them. I think they stink of money, as people say; but I'm not sure that

'Very likely, and perhaps spends more than he makes. A good deal of it looked to me like makebelieve.

There's not doubt about the claret, but the champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to have such stuff

handed round to his guests. And there isn't the ring of real gold about the house.'

'So do II hate it like poison; but if it is there, I like it to be true. There is a sort of persons going nowand

one meets them out here and there every day in one's lifewho are downright Brummagem as such at the

very first moment. My honoured lord and master, Sir Raffle, is one such. There is no mistaking him. Clap

him down upon the counter, and he rings dull and untrue at once. Pardon me, my dear Conway, if I say the

'I think you go a little too far, but I don't deny it. What you mean is, that he's not a gentleman.'

'I mean a great deal more than that. Bless you, when you come to talk of a gentleman, who is to define the

word? How do I know whether or no I'm a gentleman myself? When I used to be in Burton Crescent, I was

hardly a gentlemen thensitting at the same table with Mrs Roper and the Lupexes;do you remember

'You, if you had been painting duchesses then, with a studio in Kensington Gardens, would have said so, if

you had happened to come across me. I can't define a gentleman, even in my own mind; but I can define a

'No, not quite; a very nice fellow, I'm quite sure, and I'm very much obliged to you for taking me there.'

'That's a horse of another colour altogether. A pretty woman with such a fine figure as hers has got a right to

'No, I'm not;not especially. I do like her. She wants to make up a match between me and that Miss Van

Siever. Miss Van is to have gold by the ingot, and jewels by the bushel, and a hatful of back shares, and a

'So is her mother,' said Johnny. 'If you take the daughter, I'll take the mother, and see if I can't do you out of a

mine or two. Goodnight, old fellow. I'm only joking about old Dobbs. I'll go and dine there again tomorrow,

'I don't think you care two straws about her,' Conway Dalrymple said to his friend John Eames, two days after

the dinnerparty at Mrs Dobbs Broughton's. The painter was at work in his studio, and the private secretary

from the IncomeTax Office, who was no doubt engaged on some special mission to the West End on the

'Because I don't go about with my stockings crossgartered, and do that kind of business?'

'It isn't in my line, my dear fellow. I know what you mean, very well. I daresay, artistically speaking'

'Well then, poetically, or romantically, if you like that better I daresay that poetically or romantically I am

deficient. I eat my dinner very well, and I don't suppose I ought to do that; and, if you'll believe me, I find

'I don't believe you really care about her. I think you are aware that you have got a loveaffair on hand, and

that you hang on to it rather persistently, having in some way come to a resolution that you would be

'You are just like some of those men who for years past have been going to write a book on some new

subject. The intention has been sincere at first, and it never altogether dies away. But the wouldbe author,

though he still talks of his work, knows that it will never be executed, and is very patient under his

disappointment. All enthusiasm about the thing is gone, but he is still known as the man who is going to do it

some day. You are the man who means to marry Miss Dale in five, ten, or twenty years' time.'

'Now, Conway, all that is thoroughly unfair. The wouldbe author talks of his wouldbe book to everybody. I

have never talked of Miss Dale to anyone but you, and one or two very old family friends. And from year to

year, and from month to month, I have done all that has been in my power to win her. I don't think I shall

ever succeed, and yet I am as determined about it as I was when I first began itor rather much more so. If I

do not marry Lily, I shall never marry at all, and if anybody were to tell me tomorrow that she had made up

her mind to have me, I should well nigh go mad for joy. But I am not going to give up all my life for love.

Indeed the less I can bring myself to give up for it, the better I shall think of myself. Now I'll go away and

'Yes;flirt with her daughter, if I get the opportunity. Why shouldn't I flirt with her daughter?'

'I don't like itnot particularly, that is; because the young lady is not very pretty, nor yet very graceful, not

'She is pretty after a fashion,' said the artist, 'and if not wise, she is at any rate clever.'

'One has to be civil to people though they are neither pretty nor wise. I don't mean to insinuate that Miss

Demolines is particularly bad, or indeed that she is worse than young ladies in general. I only abused her

because there was an insinuation in what you said, that I was going to amuse myself with Miss Demolines in

the absence of Miss Dale. The one thing has nothing to do with the other thing. Nothing that I shall say to

'All right, old fellow;I didn't mean to put you on your purgation. I want you to look at that sketch. Do you

know for whom it is intended?' Johnny took up a scrap of paper, and having scrutinised it for a minute or two

declared that he had not the slightest idea who was represented. 'You know the subjectthe story that is

'Upon my word, I don't. There's some old fellow seems to be catching it over the head; but it's all so

'Ah dear! not as often as I ought to do. Al, I see; it's Sisera. I never could quite believe that story. Jael might

have killed Captain Sisera in his sleepfor which, bytheby, she ought to have been hung, and she might

possibly have done it with a hammer and a nail. But she could not have driven it through, and staked him to

'I've warrant enough for putting it into a picture, at any rate. My Jael there is intended for Miss Van Siever.'

'Oh dear, no; not yet. I mean to get her to do so. There's a strength about her, which would make her sit the

part admirably. And I fancy she would like to be driving a nail into a fellow's head. I think I shall take

'He would just do for it. But of course I shan't ask him to sit, as my Jael would not like it. She would not

'Yes; I start tomorrow. Goodbye, old fellow. I'll come and sit for Sisera if you'll let me;only Miss Van

Then Johnny left the artist's room and walked from Kensington to Lady Demoline's house. As he went he

partly accused himself and partly excused himself in that matter of his love for Lily Dale. There were

moments of his life in which he felt that he would willingly die for herthat life was not worth having

without herin which he went about inwardly reproaching fortune for having treated him so cruelly. Why

should she not be his? He half believed that she loved him. She had almost told him so. She could not surely

still love that other man who had treated her with such vile falsehood? As he considered the question in all its

bearings he assured himself over and over again that there would be now no fear of that rival;and yet he

had such fears, and hated Crosbie almost as much as ever. It was a thousand pities, certainly, that the man

should have been made free by the death of his wife. But it could hardly be that he should seek to see Lily

again, or that Lily, if so sought, should even listen to him. But yet there he was, free once morean odious

being, whom Johnny was determined to sacrifice to his vengeance, if cause for such sacrifice should occur.

And thus thinking of the real truth of his love, he endeavoured to excuse himself to himself from that charge

of vagueness and laxness which his friend Conway Dalrymple had brought against him. And then again he

accused himself of the same sin. If he had been positively in earnest, with downright manly earnestness,

would he have allowed the thing to drag itself with a weak uncertain life, as it had done for the last two or

three years? Lily Dale had been a dream to him in his boyhood; and he had made a reality of his dream as

soon as he had become a man. But before he had been able, as a man, to tell his love to the girl whom he had

loved as a child, another man had intervened, and his prize had been taken from him. Then the wretched

victor had thrown his treasure away, and he, John Eames, had been content to stoop to pick it upwas

content to do so now. But there was something which he felt to be unmanly in the constant stooping.

Dalrymple had told him that he was like a man who is ever writing a book and yet never writes it. He would

do his very best to make Lily his own. But if he failed now, he would have done with it. It seemed to him to

be below his dignity as a man to be always coveting a thing which he could not obtain.

Johnny was informed by the boy in buttons, who opened the door for him at Lady Demolines', that the ladies

were at home, and he was shown up into the drawingroom. Here he was allowed full ten minutes to explore

the knickknacks on the table, and open the photograph book, and examine the furniture, before Miss

Demolines made her appearance. When she did come, her hair was tangled more marvellously even than

when he saw at the dinnerparty, and her eyes were darker, and her cheeks thinner. 'I'm afraid mamma won't

be able to come down,' said Miss Demolines. 'She will be so sorry but she is not quite well today. The wind is

in the east, she says, and when she says the wind is in the east she always refuses to be well.'

'Ah, there I can't help you, Miss Demolines. I never know which is east, and which is west; and if I did, I

'At any rate mamma can't come downstairs, and you must excuse her. What a very nice woman Mrs Dobbs

Broughton is.' Johnny acknowledged that Mrs Dobbs Broughton was charming. 'And Mr Broughton is so

goodnatured!' Johnny again assented. 'I like him of all things,' said Miss Demolines. 'So do I,' said Johnny;

'I never liked anybody so much in my life. I suppose one is bound to say that kind of thing.' 'Oh, you

illnatured man,' said Miss Demollines. 'I suppose you think that poor Mr Broughton is a littlejust a

'Yes, you do; you know very well what I mean. And of course he is. How can he help it?'

'Of course Mr Broughton had not the advantage of birth or much early education. All his friends know that,

and make allowance accordingly. When she married him, she was aware of his deficiency, and made up her

'I knew Maria Clutterbuck for years before she was married. Of course she was very much my senior, but,

nevertheless, we were friends. I think I was hardly more than twelve years old when I first began to

correspond with Maria. She was then past twenty. So you see, Mr Eames, I make no secret of my age.'

'But never mind that. Everybody knows that Maria Clutterbuck was very much admired. Of course I'm not

'Then certainly your hopes will be frustrated, Mr Eames. But undoubtedly when she told us that she was

going to take Dobbs Broughton, we were a little disappointed. Maria Clutterbuck had been used to a better

'No, no; that is true. It has its attractions. She keeps her carriage, sees a good deal of company, has an

excellent house, and goes abroad for six weeks every year. But you know, Mr Eames, there is, perhaps, a

'You're quizzing now, I know. But don't you feel now, really, that City money is always very chancy? It

'Not with land, or the funds. Mamma has every shilling laid out in a firstclass mortgage on land at four per

'It's all speculation, you know. I don't believe she minds it; I don't indeed. She lives that kind of fevered life

now that she likes excitement. Of course we all know that Mr Dobbs Broughton is not what we can call an

educated gentleman. His manners are against him, and he is very ignorant. Even dear Maria would admit

'She has acknowledged it to me, twenty times. But he is very goodnatured, and lets her do pretty nearly

anything that she likes. I only hope she won't trespass on his goodnature. I do, indeed.'

'No; I didn't mean that exactly. Of course she ought to be moderate, and I hope she is. To that kind of fevered

existence profuse expenditure is perhaps necessary. But I was thinking of something else. I fear she is a little

'You mean too old for anything of that kind. Maria Broughton must be thirtythree if she's a day.'

'That would make you just twentyfive,' said Johnny, feeling perfectly sure as he said so that the lady whom

'Never mind my age, Mr Eames; whether I am twentyfive, or a hundred and five, has nothing to do with

poor Maria Clutterbuck. But now I'll tell you why I mention all this to you. You must have seen how foolish

'Nonsense, Mr Eames; you have. If she were your wife, would you like her to call a man Conway? Of course

you would not. I don't mean to say that there's anything in it. I know Maria's principles too well to suspect

'No doubt it does,' said Miss Demolines, with a nod of her head, which was intended to show that she was

willing to give her friend the full benefit of any excuse which could be offered for her. 'But don't you think

'Yes, you. You and Mr Dalrymple are such friends! If you were just to point out to him you know'

'Point out what? Tell him that he oughtn't to be called Conway? Because, after all, I suppose that's the worst

of it. If you mean to say that Dalrymple is in love with Mrs Broughton, you never made a greater mistake in

'Oh, no; not in love. That would be terrible, you know.' And Miss Demolines shook her head sadly. 'But there

may be so much mischief done without anything of that kind! Thoughtlessness, you know, Mr Eamespure

thoughtlessness! Think of what I have said, and if you can speak a word to your friend, do. And now I want

to ask you something else. I'm so glad you are come, because circumstances have seemed to make it

necessary that you and I should know each other. We may be of so much use if we put our heads together.'

Johnny bowed when he heard this, but made no immediate reply. 'Have you heard anything about a certain

picture that is being planned?' Johnny did not wish to answer this question, but Miss Demolines paused so

long, and looked so earnestly into his face, that he found himself forced to say something.

'A certain picture that is, or, perhaps, that is not to be, painted by Mr Dalrymple?'

'I hear so much about Dalrymple's pictures! You don't mean the portrait of Lady Glencora Palliser? That is

'As to that I cannot quite say. It is at any rate to be a likeness. I am sure you have heard of it. Come, Mr

Eames, it would be better that we should be candid with each other. You remember Miss Van Siever, of

'And now will you tell me whether you have not heard the names of Jael and Miss Van Siever coupled

'Of course you have. So have I, as you perceive. Now, Mr Eames,'and Miss Demoline's voice became

tremulously eager as she addressed him'it is your duty, and it is my duty, to take care that that picture will

'I do. I know them bothwell.' There was something almost grandly tragic in Miss Demoline's voice as she

thus spoke. 'Yes, Mr Eames, I know them well. If that scheme be continued, it will work terrible mischief.

'Think of Conway Dalrymple passing so many hours in Maria's sittingroom upstairs! The picture is to be

'But Miss Van Siever will be present. Won't that make it all right? What is there wrong about Miss Van

'I won't deny that Clara Van Siever has a certain beauty of her own. To me she is certainly the most

unattractive woman that I ever came near. She is simply repulsive!' Hereupon Miss Demolines held up her

hand as though she were banishing Miss Van Siever for ever from her sight, and shuddered slightly. 'Men

think her handsome, and she is handsome. But she is false, covetous, malicious, cruel, and dishonest.'

'You may say that, Mr Eames. And then her mother! Her mother is not so bad. Her mother is different. But

the mother is an odious woman, too. It was an evil day for Maria Clutterbuck when she first saw either the

'But what can I do?' said Johnny, who began to be shattered and almost interested by the eagerness of the

'I'll tell you what you can do. Don't let your friend go to Mr Broughton's house to paint the picture. If he does

'She's a nasty proud minx, and it would set her up ever so highto think that she was being painted by Mr

Dalrymple! But that isn't the reason. Maria would get into terrible trouble about it, there would be no end of

mischief. I must not tell you more now, and if you do not believe me, I cannot help it. Surely, Mr Eames, my

word may be taken as going for something? And when I ask you to help me in this, I do expect that you will

not refuse me.' By this time Miss Demolines was sitting close to him, and had more than once put her hand

upon his arm in the energy of her eloquence. Then as he remembered that he had never seen Miss Demolines

till the other day, of Miss Van Siever, or even Mrs Dobbs Broughton, he bethought himself that it was all

very droll. Nevertheless he had not objection to Miss Demolines putting her hand upon his arm.

'I never like to interfere in anything that does not seem to be my own business,' said Johnny.

'Is not your friend's business your own business? What does friendship mean if it not so? And when I tell you

that it is my business, mine of right, does that go for nothing with you? I thought I might depend upon you,

Mr Eames; I did indeed.' Then again she put her hand upon his arm, and as he looked into her eyes he began

to think that after all she was goodlooking in a certain way. At any rate she had fine eyes, and there was

something picturesque about the entanglement of her hair. 'Think of it, and then come back and talk to me

'Nothing can be done during that time. Clara Van Siever is going away in a day, and will not be back for three

weeks. I happen to know that; so we have plenty of time for working. It would be very desirable that she

should never even hear of it; but that cannot be hoped, as Maria has such a tongue! Couldn't you see Mr

Before he got out of the house, which he did after a most affectionate farewell, Johnny felt himself compelled

to promise that he would come to Miss Demolines again as soon as he got back to town; and as the door was

closed behind him by the boy in buttons, he made up his mind that he certainly would call as soon as he

returned to London. 'It's as good as a play,' he said to himself. Not that he cared in the least for Miss

Demolines, or that he would take any steps with the intention of preventing the painting of the picture. Miss

Demolines had some battle to fight, and he would leave her to fight it with her own weapons. If his friend

chose to paint a picture of Jael, and take Miss Van Siever as a model, it was no business of his. Nevertheless

he would certainly go and see Miss Demolines again, because, as he said, she was as good as a play.

On that same afternoon Conway Dalrymple rolled up his sketch of Jael and Sisera, put it into his pocket,

dressed himself with some considerable care, putting on a velvet coat which he was in the habit of wearing

out of doors when he did not intend to wander beyond Kensington Gardens, and the neighbourhood and

which was supposed to become him well, yellow gloves, and a certain Spanish hat of which he was fond, and

slowly sauntered across to the house of his friend Mrs Dobbs Broughton. When the door was opened to him

he did not ask of the lady were at home, but muttering some word to the servant, made his way through the

hall, upstairs, to a certain small sittingroom looking to the north which was much used by the mistress of the

house. It was quite clear that Conway Dalrymple had arranged his visit beforehand, and that he was expected.

He opened the door without knocking, and, though the servant had followed him, he entered without being

announced. 'I'm afraid I'm late,' he said, as he gave his hand to Mrs Broughton; 'but for the life I could not get

'You are quite in time,' said the lady, 'for any good that you are likely to do.'

'It means this, my friend, that you had better give the idea up. I have been thinking of it all day, and I do not

'Of course you will say so, Conway. I have observed of late that whatever I say to you is called nonsense. I

suppose it is the new fashion that gentlemen should so express themselves, but I am not quite sure that I like

'You know what I mean. I am very anxious about this picture, and I shall be much disappointed if it cannot be

'I regret it very much, I can assure you; but it will not be generous in you to urge that against me.'

'I do not know what they can be. You hinted at something which I only took as having been said in joke.'

'If you mean about Miss Van Siever and yourself, I was quite in earnest, Conway. I do not think you could do

better, and I should be glad to see it of all things. Nothing would please me more than to bring Miss Van

'BecausebecauseI can do nothing but tell you the truth, carina; it is because my heart is not free to

'It ought to be so, Conway, and you must make it free. It will be well that you should be married, and well for

others besides yourself. I tell you so as your friend, you have no truer friend. Sit where you are, if you please.

'You will be safer and quieter while you are sitting. I heard a knock at the door, and I do not doubt that it will

'Yes; I have told her. She said that it would be impossible, and that her mother would not allow it. Here she

is.' Then Miss Van Siever was shown into the room, and Dalrymple perceived that she was a girl the

peculiarity of whose complexion bore daylight better even than candlelight. There was something in her

countenance which seemed to declare that she could bear any light to which it might be subjected, without

flinching from it. And her bonnet, which was very plain, and her simple brown morning gown, suited her

well. She was one who required none of the circumstances of studied dress to carry off aught in her own

appearance. She could look her best when other women look their worst, and could dare to be seen at all

times. Dalrymple, with an artist's eye, saw this at once, and immediately confessed to himself that there was

something great about her. He could not deny her beauty. But there was ever present to him that look of

hardness which had struck him when he first saw her. He could not but fancy that though at times she might

be playful, and allow the fur of her coat to be stroked with goodhumourshe would be a dangerous

plaything, using her claws unpleasantly when the goodhumour should have passed away. But not the less

was she beautiful, andbeyond that and better than that, for his purposeshe was picturesque.

'Clara,' said Mrs Broughton, 'here is this mad painter, and he says that he will have you on his canvas either

'To prove to you that I can, I think I need only show you the sketch,' said Dalrymple, taking the drawing out

of his pocket. 'As regards the face, I know it so well by heart already, that I feel certain I could produce a

'It is clever,' said she, looking at it with all the enthusiasm which women are able to throw into their eyes on

such occasions; 'very clever. The subject would just suit her. I have never doubted that.'

'Of course a sketch must be rough. This one has been rubbed about and alteredbut I think there is

'But you can see the woman's fixed purpose; and her stealthiness as well;and the man sleeps like a log.

'Nothing in particular,' said Dalrymple. But the dim outline was intended to represent Mrs Van Siever.

'It is very goodunquestionably good,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton. 'I do not for a moment doubt that you

will make a great picture of it. It is just the subject for you, Conway; so much imagination, and yet such a

scope for portraiture. It would be full of action, and yet such perfect repose. And the lights and shadows

would be exactly in your line. I can see at a glance how you would manage the light in the tent, and bring it

down just on the nail. And then the pose of the woman would be so good, so much strength, and yet such

grace! You should have the bowl he drank the milk out of, so as to tell the whole story. No painter living tells

a story so well as you do, Conway.' Conway Dalrymple knew that the woman was talking nonsense to him,

'But Mr Dalrymple can paint his Sisera without making me Jael,' said Miss Van Siever.

'But I never will,' said the artist. 'I conceived the subject as connected with you, and I will never disjoin the

'And none was intended. But you may observe that artists in all ages have sought for higher types of models

in painting women who have been violent or criminal, than have sufficed for them in their portraitures of

gentleness and virtue. Look at all the Judiths and the Lucretias, and the Charlotte Cordays; how much finer

'But I do scruplevery much; so strongly that I know I never shall do it. In the first place I don't know why

'No;not this picture. And why should you object? It is the commonest thing in the world for ladies to sit to

'Nobody would know it, so that you need care about it. What would it matter if everybody knew it? We are

'She shall not be pressed if she does not like it,' said Mrs Broughton. 'You know I told you before Clara came

'And I don't like it,' said Miss Van Siever, with some little hesitation in her voice.

'Well yes; that is the difficulty, no doubt. The only question is, whether your mother is not so very singular,

'I am afraid that I do not comply with her in very much,' said Miss Van Siever in her gentlest voice.

'You drive me to say so, otherwise I should be a hypocrite. Of course I ought not to have said it before Mr

'You and Mr Dalrymple will understand all about that, I daresay, before the picture is finished,' said Mrs

It did not take much persuasion on the part of Conway Dalrymple to get the consent of the younger lady to be

painted, or of the elder to allow the sitting to go on in her room. When the question of easels and other

apparatus came to be considered, Mrs Broughton was rather flustered, and again declared with energy that the

whole thing must fall to the ground; but a few ore words from the painter restored her, and at last the

arrangements were made. As Mrs Dobbs Broughton's dear friend, Madalina Demolines had said, Mrs Dobbs

Broughton liked a fevered existence. 'What will Dobbs Broughton say?' she exclaimed more than once. And

it was decided at last that Dobbs should know nothing about it as long as it could be kept from him. 'Of

course he shall be told at last,' said his wife. 'I wouldn't keep anything from the dear fellow for all the world.

But if he knew it at first it would be sure to get through Musselboro to your mother.'

'I certainly shall beg that Mr Broughton may not be taken into confidence if Mr Musselboro is to follow,' said

Clara. 'And it must be understood that I must cease to sit immediately, whatever may be the inconvenience,

This stipulation was made and conceded, and then Miss Van Siever went away, leaving the artist with Mrs

Dobbs Broughton. 'And now, if you please, Conway, you had better go too,' said the lady, as soon as there

'A little while ago I improperly said that some suggestion of yours was nonsense and you rebuked me for my

'Do so, if you will;but leave me. I tell you, Conway, that in these matters you must either be guided by me,

or you and I must cease to see each other. It does not do that you should remain here with me longer than the

time usually allowed for a morning call. Clara has come and gone, and you also must go. I am sorry to disturb

'I am comfortableand I can look at you. Come;there can be no harm in saying that, if I say nothing else.

'You must win it, of course. She is to be won, like any other woman. The fruit won't fall into your mouth

'Still climbing trees in the Hesperides,' said Conway. 'Love does that, you know; but it is hard to climb the

trees without the love. It seems to me that I have done my climbinghave clomb as high as I knew how, and

that the boughs are breaking with me, and that I am likely to get a fall. Do you understand me?'

'That is no answer to my question. Do you understand that at this moment I am getting a fall which will break

every bone in my skin and put any other climbing out of the question as far as I am concerned? Do you

'Then I'll go and make love at once to Clara Van Siever. There's enough of pluck left in me to ask her to

marry me, and I suppose I could manage to go through the ceremony if she accepted me.'

'I daresay I should love her well enough after a bit;that is, if she didn't break my head or comb my hair. I

suppose there will be no objection to my saying that you sent me when I ask her?'

'Conway, you will of course not mention my name to her. I have suggested to you a marriage which I think

would tend to make you happy, and would give you a stability in life which you want. It is perhaps better that

I should be explicit at once. As an unmarried man I cannot continue to know you. You have said words of

late which have driven me to this conclusion. I have thought about it muchtoo much perhaps, and I know

that I am right. Miss Van Siever has beauty and wealth and intellect, and I think that she would appreciate the

love of such a man as you are. Now go.' And Mrs Dobbs Broughton, standing upright, pointed to the door.

Conway Dalrymple slowly took his Spanish hat from of the marble slab on which he had laid it, and left the

room without saying a word. The interview had been quite long enough, and there was nothing else which he

Croquet is a pretty game out of doors, and chess is delightful in a drawingroom. Battledore and shuttlecock

and hunttheslipper have also their attractions. Proverbs are good, and cross questions with crooked

answers may be made very amusing. But none of these games are equal to the game of

lovemakingproviding that the players can be quite sure that there shall be no heart in the matter. Any

touch of heart not only destroys the pleasure of the game, but makes the player awkward and incapable and

robs him of his skill. And thus it is that there are many people who cannot play the game at all. A deficiency

of some needed internal physical strength prevents the owners of the heart from keeping a proper control over

its valves, and thus emotion sets in, and the pulses are accelerated, and feeling supervenes. For such a one to

attempt the game of lovemaking, is as though your friend with the gout should insist on playing croquet. A

sense of the ridiculous, if nothing else, should in either case deter the afflicted one from the attempt. There

was no such absurdity with our friend Mrs Dobbs Broughton and Conway Dalrymple. Their valves and

pulses were all right. They could play the game without the slightest danger of any inconvenient result;of

any inconvenient result, that is, as regarded their own feelings. Blind people cannot see and stupid people

cannot understandand it might be that Mr Dobbs Broughton, being both blind and stupid in such matters,

might perceive something of the playing of the game and not know that it was only a game of skill.

When I say that as regarded these two lovers there was nothing of love between them, and that the game was

therefore so far innocent, I would not be understood as asserting that these people had no hearts in their

bosoms. Mrs Dobbs Broughton probably loved her husband in a sensible, humdrum way, feeling him to be a

bore, knowing him to be vulgar, aware that he often took a good deal more wine than was good for him, and

that he was almost as uneducated as a hog. Yet she loved him, and showed her love by taking care that he

should have things for dinner which he liked to eat. But in this alone there were to be found none of the

charms of a fevered existence, and therefore, Mrs Dobbs Broughton, requiring those charms for her comfort,

played her little game with Conway Dalrymple. And as regarded the artist himself let no reader presume him

to have been heartless because he flirted with Mrs Dobbs Broughton. Doubtless he will marry some day, and

will have a large family for which he will work hard, and will make a good husband to some stout lady who

will be careful in looking after his linen. But on the present occasion he fell into some slight trouble in spite

of the innocence of his game. As he quitted his friend's room he heard the halldoor slammed heavily; then

there was a quick step on the stairs, and on the landingplace above the first flight he met the master of the

house, somewhat flurried, as it seemed, and not looking comfortable, either as regarded his person or his

temper. 'By George, he's been drinking!' Conway said to himself, after the first glance. Now it certainly was

'What the devil are you doing here?' said Dobbs Broughton to his friend the artist. 'You're always here. You're

here a doosed sight more than I like.' Husbands when they have been drinking are very apt to make mistakes

'No, there ain't. There's nothing wrong; and if there was, what's that to you? I shan't ask you to pay anything

'I won't have you here, and let that be an end of it. It's all very well when I choose to have a few friends to

dinner, but my wife can do very well without your fallalling here all day. Will you remember that, if you

Conway Dalrymple, knowing that he had better not argue any question with a drunken man, took himself out

of the house, shrugging his shoulders as he thought of the misery of which his poor dear playfellow would

On the morning after his visit to Miss Demolines, John Eames found himself at the Paddington Station asking

for a ticket for Guestwick, and as he picked up his change another gentleman also demanded a ticket for the

same place. Had Guestwick been as Liverpool or Manchester, Eames would have thought nothing about it. It

is a matter of course that men should always be going from London to Liverpool and Manchester; but it

seemed odd to him that two men should want firstclass tickets for so small a place as Guestwick at the same

moment. And when, afterwards, he was placed by the guard in the same carriage with this other traveller, he

could not but feel some little curiosity. The man was four or five years Johnny's senior, a goodlooking

fellow, with a pleasant face, and the outward appurtenances of a gentleman. The intelligent reader will no

doubt be aware that the stranger was Major Grantly; but the intelligent reader has in this respect had much

advantage over John Eames, who up to this time had never even heard of his cousin Grace Crawley's lover. 'I

think you were asking for a ticket to Guestwick,' said Johnny; whereupon the major owned that such was

the case. 'I lived in Guestwick for the greater part of my life,' said Johnny, 'and it's the dullest, dearest little

town in all England.' 'I never was there before,' said the major, 'and indeed I can hardly say I am going there

now. I shall only pass through it.' Then he got out his newspaper, and Johnny also got his out, and for a time

there was no conversation between them. John remembered how holy was the errand upon which he was

intent, and gathered his thoughts together, resolving that having so great a matter on his mind he would think

about nothing else and speak about nothing at all. He was going down to Allington to ask Lily Dale for the

last time whether she would be his wife; to ascertain whether he was to be successful or unsuccessful in the

one great wish of his life; and, as such was the case with himas he had in hand a thing so vital, it could be

nothing to him whether the chance companion of his voyage was an agreeable or disagreeable person. He

himself, in any of the ordinary circumstances of life, was prone enough to talk with anyone he might meet.

He could have travelled for twelve hours together with an old lady, and could listen to her or make her listen

to him without halfanhour's interruption. But this journey was made on no ordinary occasion, and it

behoved him to think of Lily. Therefore, after the first little almost necessary effort at civility, he fell back

into gloomy silence. He was going to do his best to win Lily Dale, and this doing of his best would require all

And probably Major Grantly's mind was bent in the same direction. He, too, had this work before him, and

could not look upon his work as a thing that which he was intent upon obtaining. He knew he almost

knewthat he had won the heart of the girl whom he was seeking. There had been that between him and her

which justified him in supposing that he was dear to her, although no expression of affection had ever passed

from her lips to his ears. Men may know all that they require to know on that subject without any plainly

spoken words. Grace Crawley had spoken no word, and yet he had knownat any rate had not doubted, that

he could have the place in her heart of which he desired to be the master. She would never surrender herself

altogether till she had taught herself to be sure of him to whom she gave herself. But she had listened to him

with silence that had not rebuked him, and he had told himself that he might venture, without fear of that

rebuke as to which the minds of some men are sensitive to a degree which other men cannot even understand.

But for all this Major Grantly could not be altogether happy as to his mission; he would ask Grace Crawley to

be his wife; but he would be ruined by his own success. And the remembrance that he would be severed from

his own family by the thing that he was doing, was very bitter to him. In generosity he might be silent about

this to Grace, but who can endure to be silent on such a subject to the woman who is to be his wife? And then

it would not be possible for him to abstain from some explanation. He was now following her down to

Allington, a step which he certainly would not have taken but the misfortune which had befallen her father,

and he must explain to her in some sort of way why he did so. He must say to herif not in so many words,

still almost as plainly as words could speakI am here now to ask you to be my wife, because you specially

require the protection and countenance of the man who loves you, in the present circumstances of your

father's affairs. He knew that he was doing right;perhaps had some idea that he was doing nobly; but this

very appreciation of his own good qualities made the task before the more difficult.

Major Grantly had The Times, and John Eames had The Daily News, and they exchanged papers. One had

the last Saturday, and the other the last Spectator, and the exchanged these also. Both had The Pall Mall

Gazette, of which enterprising periodical they gradually came to discuss the merits and demerits, thus falling

into conversation at last, in spite of the weight of the mission on which each of them was intent. Then, at last,

when they were within halfanhour of the end of their journey, Major Grantly asked his companion what

was the best inn at Guestwick. He had at first been minded to go on to Allington at onceto go on to

Allington and get his work done, and then return home or remain there, or find the nearest inn with a decent

bed, as circumstances might direct him. But on reconsideration, as he drew nearer to the scene of his future

operations, he thought that it might be well for him to remain that night at Guestwick. He did not quite know

how far Allington was from Guestwick, but he did know that it was still midwinter, and that the days were

short. 'The Magpie' was the best inn, Johnny said. Having lived at Guestwick all his life, and having a mother

living there now, he had never himself put up at 'The Magpie' but he believed it to a good country inn. They

kept posthorses there, he knew. He did not tell the stranger that his late old friend Lord De Guest, and his

present old friend Lady Julia, always hired posthorses from 'The Magpie', but he grounded his ready

assertion on the remembrance of that fact. 'I think I shall stay there tonight,' said the major. 'You'll find it

pretty comfortable, I don't doubt,' said Johnny. 'Though, indeed, it always seems to me that a man alone at an

inn has a very bad time of it. Reading is all very well, but one gets tired of it at last. And then I hate

horsehair chairs.' 'It isn't very delightful,' said the major, 'but beggars mustn't be choosers.' Then there was a

pause, after which the major spoke again. 'You don't happen to know which way Allington lies?'

'There is a village called Allington, certainly. It lies over there.' And Johnny pointed with his finger through

the window. 'As you do not know the country you can see nothing, but I can see the Allington trees at this

'There's a publichouse, with a very nice bedroom. It is called the "Red Lion". Mrs Forrard keeps it. I would

quite as soon stay there as at "The Magpie". Only if they don't expect you, they wouldn't have much for

'Yes, I know the village of Allington very well. I have friends living there. Indeed, I may say I know

'Mrs Dale,' said Johnny. 'Yes, I know Mrs Dale. I have known Mrs Dale pretty nearly all my life.' Who could

this man be who was gong down to see Mrs DaleMrs Dale, and consequently, Lily Dale? He thought that

he knew Mrs Dale so well, that she could have no visitor of whom he would not be entitled to have some

knowledge. But Major Grantly had nothing more to say at the moment about Mrs Dale. He had never seen

Mrs Dale in his life, and was now going to her house, not to see her, but a friend of hers. He found that he

could not very well explain this to a stranger, and therefore at the moment he said nothing further. But Johnny

would not allow the subject to be dropped. 'Have you known Mrs Dale long?' he asked.

'I intend to call upon her, that is all. I suppose they will have an omnibus here from "The Magpie"?' Eames

said that there no doubt would be an omnibus from 'The Magpie', and then they were at their journey's end.

For the present we will follow John Eames, who went at once to his mother's house. It was his intention to

remain there for two or three days, and then go over to the house, or rather to the cottage, of his great ally

Lady Julia, which lay just beyond Guestwick Manor, and somewhat nearer to Allington than to the town of

Guestwick. He had made up his mind that he would not himself too over to Allington till he could do so from

Guestwick Cottage, as it was called, feeling that, under certain untoward circumstancesshould untoward

circumstances ariseLady Julia's sympathy might be more endurable than that of his mother. But he would

take care that it should be known at Allington that he was in the neighbourhood. He understood the necessary

strategy of his campaign too well to suppose that he could startle Lily into acceptance.

With his own mother and sister, John Eames was in these days quite a hero. He was a hero with them now,

because in his early boyish days there had been so little about him that was heroic. Then there had been a

doubt whether he would ever earn his daily bread, and he had been a very heavy burden on the slight family

resources in the matter of jackets and trousers. The pride taken in Johnny had not been great, though the love

felt for him had been warm. But gradually things had changed, and John Eames had become hero in his

mother's eyes. A chance circumstance had endeared him to Earl De Guest, and from that moment things had

gone well with him. The earl had given him a watch and had left him a fortune, and Sir Raffle Buffle had

made him his private secretary. In the old days, when Johnny's love for Lily Dale was first discussed by his

mother and sister, they had thought it impossible that Lily should ever bring herself to regard with affection

so humble a suitor;for the Dales have ever held their heads up in the world. But now there is no misgiving

on that score with Mrs Eames and her daughter. Their wonder that Lily Dale should be such a fool as to

decline the love of such a man. So Johnny was received with respect due to a hero, as well as with the

affection belonging to a son;by which I mean it to be inferred that Mrs Eames had got a little bit of fish for

'A man came down in the train with me who says he is going over to Allington,' said Johnny. 'I wonder who

'A friend of Captain Dale's probably,' said Mary. Captain Dale was the squire's nephew and his heir.

'I suppose not, as he asked about the inn.' Then, Johnny reflected that he might possibly be a friend of

Crosbie's, and became melancholy in consequence. Crosbie might have thought it expedient to send an

ambassador down to prepare the ground for him before he should venture again upon the scene himself. If it

were so, would it not be well that he, John Eames, should get over to Lily as soon as possible, and not wait

It was at any rate incumbent upon him to call upon Lady Julia the next morning, because of his commission.

The Berlin wool might remain in his portmanteau till his portmanteau should go with him to the cottage; but

he would take the spectacles at once, and he must explain to Lady Julia what the lawyers had told him about

the income. So he hired a saddlehorse from 'The Magpie' and started after breakfast on the morning after his

arrival. In his unheroic days he would have walkedas he had done, scores of times, over the whole distance

from Guestwick to Allington. But now, in these grander days, he thought about his boots and the mud, and

the formal appearance of the thing. 'Ah dear,' he said to himself, as the nag walked slowly out of the town, 'it

used to be better with the old days. I hardly hoped that she would ever accept me, but at least she had never

He did not go very fast. After leaving the town he trotted on for a mile or so. But when he got to the palings

of Guestwick Manor he let the animal walk again, and his mind ran back over the incidents of his life which

were connected with the place. He remembered a certain long ramble which he had taken in those days

woods after Lily had refused him. That had been subsequent to the Crosbie episode in his life, and Johnny

had been led to hope by certain of his friendsespecially by Lord De Guest and his sisterthat he might

then be successful. But he had been unsuccessful, and had passed the bitterest hour of life wandering about in

those woods. Since that he had been unsuccessful again and again; but the bitterness of failure had not been

so strong with him as on that first occasion. He would try again now, and if he failed, he would fail for the

last time. As he was thinking of all this, a gig overtook him on the road, and on looking round he saw that the

occupant of the gig was the man who had travelled with him on the previous day in the train. Major Grantly

was alone in the gig, and as he recognised John Eames he stopped his horse. 'Are you going to Allington?' he

asked. John Eames, with something of scorn in his voice, replied that he had no intention of going to

Allington on that day. He still thought that this man might be an emissary from Crosbie, and therefore

resolved that but scant courtesy was due to him. 'I am on my way there now,' said Grantly, 'and am going to

'If you have no objection,' said Johnny. 'But I can hardly suppose that you have heard of my name before?'

'It is familiar to me because I have the pleasure of knowing a cousin of yours, Grace Crawley.'

'Just so,' said the major, who now began to reflect that he had been indiscreet in mentioning Grace Crawley's

name. No doubt everyone connected with the family, all the Crawleys, all the Dales, and all the Eames's,

would soon know the business which had brought him down to Allngton; but he need not have taken the

trouble of beginning the story himself. John Eames, in truth, had never heard of Major Grantly's name, and

was quite unaware of the fortune which awaited his cousin. Even after what he had now been told, he still

suspected the stranger of being an emissary from his enemy; but the major, not giving him credit for his

ignorance, was annoyed with himself for having told so much of his own history. 'I will tell the ladies that I

had the pleasure of meeting you,' he said; 'that is, if I am lucky enough to see them.' And then he drove on.

'I know I should hate that fellow if I were to meet him anywhere again,' said Johnny to himself as he rode on.

'When I take an aversion to a fellow at first sight, I always stick to it. It's instinct, I suppose.' And he was still

giving himself credit for the strength of his instincts when he reached Lady Julia's cottage. He rode at once

into the stableyard, with the privilege of an accustomed friend of the house, and having given up his horse,

entered the cottage by the back door. 'Is my lady at home, Jemima?' he said to the maid.

'Yes, Mr John; she is in the drawingroom, and friends of yours are with her.' Then he was announced, and

He was very warmly received. Lady Julia really loved him dearly, and would have done anything in her

power to bring about a match between him and Lily. Grace was his cousin, and though she had not seen him

often, she was prepared to love him dearly as Lily's lover. And LilyLily loved him dearly tooif only she

could have brought herself to love him as he wished to be loved! To all of them Johnny Eames was

something of a hero. At any rate in the eyes of all of them he possessed those virtues which seemed to them

'I am so glad you've comethat is, if you've brought my spectacles,' said Lady Julia.

'No; don't come till Wednesday. But I mean Monday. No; Monday won't do. Come on Tuesdayearly, and

Johnny swore that there was no news. He made a brave attempt to be gay and easy before Lily; but he failed,

and he knew that he failedand he knew that she knew that he failed. 'Mamma will be so glad to see you,'

'And it will be so nice our having Grace at the Small House;won't it? Uncle Christopher has quite taken a

'So he says, and he is at Allington at this moment. He passed me in the gig down here.'

'I have not the remotest idea,' said Johnny. 'He is a man about my own age, very goodlooking, and

apparently very well able to take care of himself. He is shortsighted, and holds a glass in one eye when he

Grace Crawley's face had become suffused with blushes at the first mention of the friend and the gig; but then

Grace blushed very easily. Lily knew all about it at once;at once divined who must be the friend in the gig,

and was almost beside herself with joy. Lady Julia, who had heard no more of the major than had Johnny,

was still clever enough to perceive that the friend must be a particular friendfor she had noticed Miss

Crawley's blushes. And Grace herself had no doubt as to the man. The picture of her lover, with the glass in

his eye as he looked out of the window, had been too perfect to admit of a doubt. In her distress she put out

Major Grantly drove his gig into the yard of the 'Red Lion' at Allington, and from thence walked away at

once to Mrs Dale's house. When he reached the village he had hardly made up his mind as the way in which

he would begin his attack; but now, as he went down the street, he resolved that he would first ask for Mrs

Dale. Most probably he would find himself in the present of Mrs Dale and her daughter, and of Grace also, at

his first entrance; and if so, his position would be awkward enough. He almost regretted now that he had not

written to Mrs Dale, and asked for an interview. His task would be very difficult if he should find all the

ladies together. But he was strong enough in the feeling that when his purpose was told it would meet the

approval at any rate of Mrs Dale; and he walked boldly on, and bravely knocked at the door of the Small

House, as he had already learned that Mrs Dale's residence was called by the neighbourhood. Nobody was at

home, the servant said; and then, when the visitor began to make further inquiry, the girl explained that the

two young ladies had walked as far as Guestwick Cottage, and that Mrs Dale was at this moment at the Great

House with the squire. She had gone across soon after the young ladies had started. The maid, however, was

interrupted before she had finished telling all this to the major, by finding her mistress behind her in the

Then the major announced himself. 'My name is Major Grantly,' said he; and he was blundering on with some

words about his own intrusion, when Mrs Dale begged him to follow her into the drawingroom. He had

muttered something to the effect that Mrs Dale would not know who he was; but Mrs Dale knew all about

him, and had heard the whole of Grace's story from Lily. She and Lily had often discussed the question

whether, under existing circumstances, Major Grantly should feel himself bound to offer his hand to Grace,

and the mother and daughter had differed somewhat on the matter. Mrs Dale had held that he was not so

bound, urging that the unfortunate position in which Mr Crawley was placed was so calamitous to all

connected with him, as to justify any man, not absolutely engaged, in abandoning the thoughts of such a

marriage. Mrs Dale had spoken of Major Grantly's father and mother and brother and sister, and had declared

her opinion that they were entitled to consideration. But Lily had opposed this idea very stoutly, asserting that

in an affair of love a man should think neither of father or brother of mother or sister. 'If he is worth

anything,' Lily had said, 'he will come to her nowin her trouble; and will tell her that she at least has got a

friend who will be true to her. If he does that, then I shall think that there is something of the poetry and

nobleness of love left.' In answer to this Mrs Dale had replied that women had o right to expect from men

such selfdenying nobility as that. 'I don't expect it, mamma,' said Lily. 'And I am sure that Grace does not.

Indeed I am quite sure that Grace does not expect even to see him ever again. She never says so, but I know

that she has made up her mind about it. Still I think he ought to come.' 'It can hardly be that a man is bound to

do a thing, the doing of which, as you confess, would be almost more than noble,' said Mrs Dale. And so the

matter had been discussed between them. But now, as it seemed to Mrs Dale, the man had come to do the

noble thing. At any rate he was there in her drawingroom, and before either of them had sat down he had

contrived to mention Grace. 'You may not probably have heard my name,' he said,' but I am acquainted with

'I know your name very well, Major Grantly. My brotherinlaw who lives down yonder, Mr Dale, knows

your father very wellor he did some years ago. And I have heard him say that he remembers you.'

'I recollect. He used to be staying at Ullathorne. But that is a long time ago. Is he at home now?'

'Mr Dale is almost always at home. He very rarely goes away, and I am sure would be glad to see you.'

Then there was a little pause in the conversation. They had managed to seat themselves, and Mrs Dale had

said enough to put her visitor fairly at his ease. If he had anything special to say to her, he must say itany

request or proposition to make as to Grace Crawley, he must make it. And he did make it at once. 'My object

'She and my daughter have taken a long walk to call on a friend, and I am afraid they will stay for lunch; but

they will certainly be home between three and four, if that is not too long for you to remain at Allington.'

'I'll tell you what, Mrs Dale; if you'll permit me, I'll explain to you why I have come here. Indeed, I have

intended to do so all through, and I can only ask you to keep my secret, if after all it should require to be

'I will certainly keep any secret that you may ask me to keep,' said Mrs Dale, taking off her bonnet.

'I hope there may be no need of one,' said Major Grantly. 'The truth is, Mrs Dale, that I have known Grace

Crawley for some time nearly for two years now, andI may as well speak it out at onceI have made

up my mind to ask her to be my wife. That is why I am here.' Considering the nature of the statement, which

must have been embarrassing, I think that it was made with fluency and simplicity.

'Of course, Major Grantly, you know that I have no authority with our young friend,' said Mrs Dale. 'I mean

that she is not connected with us by family ties. She has a father and mother, living, as I believe, in the same

'And you may, perhaps, understand that, as Miss Crawley is now staying with me, I owe it in a measure to her

Mrs Dale was going on, but she was interrupted by Major Grantly. 'That is just it,' he said. 'There are

circumstances at present which make it almost impossible that I should go to Mr Crawley and ask his

permission to address his daughter. I do not know whether you have heard the whole story?'

'He is, I believe, in such a state of mental distress as to be hardly capable of giving me a considerate answer.

And I should not know how to speak to him, or how not to speak to him, about this unfortunate affair. But,

Mrs Dale, you will, I think, perceive that the same circumstances make it imperative upon me to be explicit to

Miss Crawley. I think I am the last man to boast of a woman's regard, but I had learned to think that I was not

indifferent to Grace. If that be so, what must she think of me if I stay away from her now?'

'She understands too well the weight of the misfortune which has fallen upon her father, to suppose that

'That is just it. She will think that I am silent for that reason. I have determined that that shall not keep me

silent, and, therefore, I have come here. I may, perhaps, be able to bring comfort to her in her trouble. As

regards my worldly positionthough, indeed, it will not be very goodas hers is not good either, you will

'Certainly not. I need hardly say that I fully understand that, as regards money, you are offering everything

'Indeed I doand appreciate the great nobility of your love for Grace. You shall see her here, if you wish

itand today, if you choose to wait.' Major Grantly said that he would wait and would see Grace on that

afternoon. Mrs Dale again suggested that he should lunch with her, but this he declined. She then proposed

that he should go across and call upon the squire, and thus consume his time. But to this he also objected. He

was not exactly in humour, he said, to renew so old and so slight an acquaintance at that time. Mr Dale would

probably have forgotten him, and would be sure to ask what had brought him to Allington. He would go and

take a walk, he said, and come again at exactly halfpast three. Mrs Dale again expressed her certainty that

Mrs Dale when she was left alone could not but compare the good fortune that was awaiting Grace, with the

evil fortune which had fallen on her own child. Here was a man who was at all points a gentleman. Such, at

least, was the character which Mrs Dale at once conceded to him. And Grace had chanced to come across this

man, and to please his eye, and satisfy his taste, and be loved by him. And the result of that chance would be

that Grace would have everything given to her that the world has to give worth acceptance. She would have a

companion for her life whom she could trust, admire, love, and of whom she could be infinitely proud. Mrs

Dale was not at all aware whether Major Grantly might have five hundred a year to spend, or five

thousandor what sum intermediate between the twonor did she give much of her thoughts at the

moment to that side of the subject. She knew without thinking of itor fancied that she knew, that there

were means sufficient for comfortable living. It was solely the nature and character of the man that was in her

mind, and the sufficiency that was to be found in them for a wife's happiness. But her daughter, her Lily, had

come across a man who was a scoundrel, and, as the consequence of that meeting, all her life was marred!

Could any credit be given to Grace for her success, or any blame attached to Lily for her failure. Surely not

the latter! How was her girl to have guarded herself from a love so unfortunate, or have avoided the rock on

which her vessel had been shipwrecked? Then many bitter thoughts passed through Mrs Dale's mind, and she

almost envied Grace Crawley her lover. Lily was contented to remain as she was, but Lily's mother could not

bring herself to be satisfied that her child should fill a lower place in the world than other girls. It had ever

been her ideaan ideal probably never absolutely uttered even to herself, but not the less practically

conceivedthat it is the business of a woman to be married. That her Lily should have been won and not

Major Grantly went back to the inn and saw his horse fed, and smoked a cigar, and then, finding that it was

still only just one o'clock, he started off for a walk. He was not careful not to go out of Allington by the road

he had entered it, as he had no wish to encounter Grace and her friend on their return to the village; so he

crossed a little brook which runs at the bottom of the hill on which the chief street of Allington is built, and

turned into a fieldpath to the left as soon as he had got beyond the houses. Not knowing the geography of

the place he did not understand that by taking that path he was making his way back to the squire's house; but

it was so; and after sauntering on for about a mile and crossing back again over the stream, of which he took

no notice, he found himself leaning across a gate, and looking into a paddock on the other side of which was

the high wall of a gentleman's garden. To avoid this he went on a little farther and found himself on a farm

road, and before he could retrace his steps so as not to be seen, he met a gentleman whom he presumed to be

the owner of the house. It was the squire surveying his home farm, as was his daily custom; but Major

Grantly had not perceived that the house must of necessity be Allington House, having been aware that he

had passed the entrance to the place, as he entered the village on the other side. 'I'm afraid I'm intruding,' he

said, lifting his hat. 'I came up the path yonder, not knowing that it would lead me so close to a gentleman's

'There's a right of way through the fields on to the Guestwick road,' said the squire, 'and therefore you are not

trespassing in any sense; but we are not particular about such things down here, and you would be very

welcome if there were no right of way. If you are a stranger, perhaps you would like to see the outside of the

Then Major Grantly became aware that this must be the squire, and he was annoyed with himself for his own

awkwardness in having thus come upon the house. He would have wished to keep himself altogether unseen

if it had been possibleand especially unseen by this old gentleman, to whom, now that he had met him, he

was almost bound to introduce himself. But he was not absolutely bound to do so, and he determined that he

would still keep his peace. Even if the squire should afterwards hear of his having been there, what would it

matter? But to proclaim himself at the present moment would be disagreeable to him. He permitted the

squire, however, to lead him to the front of the house, and in a few moments was standing on the terrace

You can see the date still in the brickwork of one of the chimneysthat is, if your eyes are very good you

can see it1617. It was completed in that year, and very little has been done to it since. We think the

'They are very pretty,' said the major. 'Indeed, the house altogether is as graceful as it can be.'

'Those trees are old too,' said the squire, pointing to two cedars which stood at the side of the house. 'They

say they are older than the house but I don't feel sure of it. There was a mansion here before, very nearly,

'Your own ancestors were living here before that, I suppose?' said Grantly, meaning to be civil.

'Well, yes; two or three hundred years before it, I suppose. If you don't mind coming down to the churchyard,

you'll get an excellent view of the house;by far the best there is. Bytheby, would you like to step in and

'I'm very much obliged,' said the major, 'but indeed I'd rather not.' Then he followed the squire down to the

churchyard, and was shown the church as well as the view of the house, and the vicarage, and a view over to

Allington woods from the vicarage gate, of which the squire was very fond, and in this way he was taken

back on to the Guestwick side of the village, and even down on the road by which he had entered it, without

in the least knowing where he was. He looked at his watch, and saw that it was past two. 'I'm very much

obliged to you, sir,' he said again taking off his hat to the squire, 'and if I shall not be intruding, I'll make my

'This is Allington,' said the squire; and as he spoke, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley turned the corner from the

Guestwick road and came close upon them. 'Well, girls, I did not expect to see you,' said the squire; 'your

'We have come back earlier than we intended,' said Lily. She of course had seen the stranger with her uncle,

and knowing the ways of the squire in such matters had expected to be introduced to him. But the reader will

be aware that no introduction was possible. It never occurred to Lily that this man could be Major Grantly of

whom she and Grace had been talking during the whole length of the walk home. But Grace and her lover

had of course known each other at once, and Grantly, though he was abashed and almost dismayed by the

meeting, of course came forward and gave his hand to his friend. Grace in taking it did not utter a word.

'Perhaps I ought to have introduced myself to you as Major Grantly,' said he, turning to the squire.

'You are very welcome, I'm sure. I hope your father is well? I used to know him some years ago, and I

daresay he has not forgotten me.' Then, while the girls stood by in silence, and while Grantly was

endeavouring to escape, the squire invited him very warmly to send his portmanteau up to the house. 'We'll

have the ladies up from the house below, and make it as little dull for you as possible.' But this would not

have suited Grantlyat any rate would not suit him till he should know what answer he was to have. He

excused himself therefore, pleading a positive necessity to be at Guestwick that evening, and then, explaining

that he had already seen Mrs Dale, he expressed his intention of going back to the Small House in company

with the ladies, if they would allow him. The squire, who did not yet quite understand it all, bade him a

formal adieu, and Lily led the way home down behind the churchyard wall and through the bottom of the

gardens belonging to the Great House. She of course knew now who the stranger was, and did all in her

power to relieve Grace of her embarrassment. Grace had hitherto not spoken a single word since she had seen

her lover, nor did she say a word to him in their walk to the house. And, in truth, he was not much more

communicative than Grace. Lily did all the talking, and with wonderful female skill contrived to have some

words ready for use till they all found themselves together in Mrs Dale's drawingroom. 'I have caught a

major, mamma, and landed him,' said Lily laughing, 'but I'm afraid, from what I hear, that you had caught

Lady Julia De Guest always lunched at one exactly, and it was not much past twelve when John Eames made

his appearance at the cottage. He was of course told to stay, and of course said that he would stay. It had been

his purpose to lunch with Lady Julia; but then he had not expected to find Lily Dale at the cottage. Lily

herself would have been quite at her ease, protected by Lady Julia, and somewhat protected also by her own

powers of fence, had it not been that Grace was there also. But Grace Crawley, from the moment that she had

heard the description of the gentleman who looked out of the window with his glass in his eye, had by no

means been at her ease. Lily saw at once that she could not be brought to join in any conversation, and both

John and Lady Julia, in their ignorance of the matter in hand, made matters worse.

'So that was Major Grantly,' said John. 'I have heard of him before, I think. He is a son of the old archdeacon,

'I don't know about old archdeacon,' said Lady Julia. 'The archdeacon is the son of the old bishop, whom I

'But he's going to call on your mother, he said.' Then Johnny remembered that the major had said something

'No, you goose. He is not the son of; he is the grandson. They were going to make the archdeacon a bishop,

and I remember hearing that he was terribly disappointed. He is getting to be an old man now, I suppose; and

'I suppose he ought to have some sort of clerical tinge about him; but this fellow had nothing of that kind.'

'But then this fellow, as you call him,' said Lily, 'is only the son of an archdeacon.'

But during all this time, Grace did not say a word, and Lily perceived it. Then she bethought herself as to

what she had better do. Grace, she knew, could not be comfortable where she was. Nor, indeed, was it

probable that Grace would be very comfortable in returning home. There could not be much ease for Grace

till the coming meeting between her and Major Grantly should be over. But it would be better that Grace

should go back to Allington at once; and better also, perhaps, for Major Grantly that it should be so. 'Lady

'I think we must break our promise; I do indeed. You mustn't be angry with us.' And Lily looked at Lady

Julia, as though there were something which Lady Julia ought to understand, which she, Lily, could not quite

explain. I fear that Lily was false, and intended her old friend to believe that she was running away because

'It is out of the question that I should let you walk all the way here from Allington and all the way back

'We shall just be home in time for lunch if we go now,' said Lily. 'Will not that be the best, Grace?'

Grace hardly knew what would be best. She only knew that Major Grantly was at Allington, and that he had

come thither to see her. The idea of hurrying back after him was unpleasant to her, and yet she was so flurried

that she felt thankful to Lily for taking her away from the cottage. The matter was compromised at last. They

remained for halfanhour, and ate some biscuits and pretended to drink a glass of wine, and then they

started. John Eames, who in truth believed that Lily Dale was running away from him, was by no means well

pleased, and when the girls were gone, did not make himself so agreeable to his old friend as he should have

done. 'What a fool I am to come here at all,' he said, throwing himself into an armchair as soon as the front

'You know what I mean, Lady Julia. I am a fool to come near her, until I can do so without thinking more of

'I don't think you have anything to complain of as yet,' said Lady Julia, who had in some sort perceived that

Lily's retreat had been on Grace's account, and not on her own. 'It seems to me that Lily was very glad to see

you, and when I told her that you were coming to stay here, and would be near them for some days, she

'What difference can the man make to her? The truth is, I despise myself;I do indeed, Lady Julia. Only

think of my meeting Crosbie at dinner the other day, and his having the impertinence to come up and shake

'I suppose he didn't say anything about what happened at the Paddington Station?'

'No; he didn't speak about that. I wish I knew whether she cares for him still. If I thought she did, I would

never speak another word to herI mean about myself. Of course I am not going to quarrel with them. I am

not such a fool as that.' Then Lady Julia tried to comfort him, and succeeded so far that he was induced to eat

the mince veal that had been intended for the comfort and support of the two young ladies who had run away.

'Do you think it is he?' were the first words which Grace said when they were fairly on their way back

'I should think it must be. What other man can there be, of that sort, who would be likely to come to

'His coming is not likely. I cannot understand that he should come. He let me leave Silverbridge without

'And I think he is quite right to come here. I am very glad he has come. It shows that he has really something

like a heart inside him. Had he not come, or sent, or written, or taken some step before the trial comes on, to

make you know that he was thinking of you, I should have said that he was as hardas hard as any other

man I had ever heard of. Men are so hard! But I don't think he is, now. I am beginning to regard him as the

one chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, and to fancy that you ought to go down on your knees before him,

and kiss his highness's shoebuckle. In judging of men one's mind vacillates so quickly between the scorn

which is due to a false man and the worship which is due to a true man.' Then she was silent for a moment,

but Grace said nothing, and Lily continued, 'I tell you fairly, Grace, that I shall expect very much from you

'In the way of worship. I shall not be content that you should merely love him. If he has come here, as he

must have done, to say that the moment of the world's reproach is the moment he has chosen to ask you to be

'I shall owe him more than love, and I will pay him more than love,' said Grace. There was something in the

tone of her voice as she spoke which made Lily stop her and look up into her face. There was a smile there

which Lily had never seen before, and which gave a beauty to her which was wonderful to Lily's eyes. Surely

this lover of Grace's must have seen a smile like that, and therefore had loved her and was giving such

wonderful proof of his love. 'Yes,' continued Grace, standing and looking at her friend, 'you may stare at me,

Lily, but you may be sure that I will do for Major Grantly all the good that I can do for him.'

'Never mind what I mean. You are very imperious in managing your own affairs, and you must let me be so

'Do you suppose that ififif in real truth it can possibly be the case that Major Grantly shall have come

here to offer me his hand when we all ground down in the dust as we are, do you think that I will let him

'Certainly. Why not? There will be no sacrifice. He will be asking for that which he wishes to get; and you

'If he wants it, where is his nobility? If it be as you say, he will have shown himself noble, and his nobility

will have consisted in this, that he has been willing to take that which he does not want, in order that he may

succour the one whom he loves. I also will succour one whom I love, as best I know how.' Then she walked

on quickly before her friend, and Lily stood for a moment thinking before she followed her. They were now

on a fieldpath, by which they were enabled to escape the road back to Allington for the greater part of the

distance, and Grace had reached a stile, and had clambered over it before Lily had caught her.

'I want you to stop a moment and listen to me. I am sure you are wrong in thiswrong for both your sakes.

'I thought he did once; and if he has come here to see me, I suppose he does still.'

'I do. I make no mystery about that to you. I do love him with all my heart. I love him today, now that I

believe him to be here, and that I suppose I shall see him, perhaps this very afternoon. And I loved him

yesterday, when I thought that I should never see him again. I do love him. I do. I love him so well that I will

'That being so, if he makes you an offer you are bound to accept it. I do not think that you have an

'Because I like somebody else better. If you have got as good a reason, I won't say another word to you.'

'Because I cannot trust his love; that is why. It is not very kind of you, opening my sores afresh, when I am

'I'll forgive you all that and a deal more if you will only listen to me and try to take my advice. Because this

major of yours does a generous thing, which is for the good of you boththe infinite good of both of

youyou are to emulate his generosity by doing a thing which will be for the good of neither of you. That is

about it. Yes, it is, Grace. You cannot doubt that he has been meaning this for some time past; and of course,

if he looks upon you as his ownand I daresay, if the whole truth is to be told, he does'

'Yes you are, in one sense; you have just said so with a great deal of energy. And if it is solet me see,

'But I do mind, and I hate to be interrupted in my arguments. Yes, just that. If he saw his cow sick, he'd try to

doctor the cow in her sickness. He sees that you are sick, and of course he comes to your relief.'

'Nor his dog, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is his, exceptexcept, Lily, the dearest friend that he

has on the face of the earth. He cannot have a friend that will go no further for him than I will. He will never

know how far I will go to serve him. You don't know his people. Nor do I know them. But I know what they

'What has that to do with it?' said Lily, sharply. 'If she were married to an archduke, what difference would

'And they are proud peopleall of themand rich; and they live with high persons in the world.'

'I didn't care though they lived with the royal family, and had the Prince of Wales for their bosom friend. It

'But think of what my family ishow we are situated. When my father was simply poor I did not care about

it, because he has been born and bred a gentleman. But now he is disgraced. Yes, Lily, he is. I am bound to

say so, at any rate to myself, when I am thinking of Major Grantly; and I will not carry that disgrace into a

family which would feel it so keenly as they would do.' Lily, however, went on with her arguments, and was

still arguing when they turned the corner of the lane, and came upon Lily's uncle and the major himself.

In going down from the church to the Small House Lily Dale had all the conversation to herself. During some

portion of the way the path was only broad enough for two person, and her Major Grantly walked by Lily's

side, while Grace followed them. Then they found their way into the house, and Lily made her little speech to

her mother about catching the major. 'Yes, my dear, I have seen Major Grantly before,' said Mrs Dale. 'I

suppose he has met you on the road. But I did not expect that any of you would have returned so soon.' Some

little explanation followed as to the squire, and as to Major Grantly's walk, and after that the great thing was

to leave the two lovers alone. 'You will dine here, of course, Major Grantly,' Mrs Dale said. But this he

declined. He had learned, he said, that there was a nighttrain up to London, and he thought that he would

return to town by that. He had intended, when he left London to get back there as soon as possible. Then Mrs

Dale, having hesitated for two or three seconds, got up and left the room, and Lily followed. 'It seems very

odd and abrupt,' said Mrs Dale to her daughter, 'but I suppose it is best.' 'Of course, it is best, mamma. Do as

one would be done bythat's the only rule. It will be much better for her that she should have it over.'

Grace was seated on a sofa, and Major Grantly got up from his chair, and came and stood opposite to her.

'Grace,' he said, 'I hope you are not angry with me for coming down to see you here.'

'I have thought a great deal about it, and your friend, Miss Prettyman, knew that I was coming. She quite

'She has written to me, but did not tell me of it,' said Grace, not knowing what other answer to make.

'Noshe could not have done that. She had no authority. I only mention her name because it will have

weight with you, and because I have not done that which, under the circumstances, perhaps, I should have

'I have felt that at the present moment I could not do so with any success. It has not come of any want of

respect either for him or for you. Of course, Grace, you know why I am here.' He paused, and then,

remembering that he had no right to expect an answer to such a question, he continued, 'I have come here,

dearest Grace, to ask you to be my wife, and to be a mother to Edith. I know that you love Edith.'

'And I have hoped sometimesthough I suppose I ought not to say sobut I have hoped and almost thought

sometimes, that you have been willing tolove me, too. It is better to tell the truth simply, is it not?'

'And therefore, and because I love you dearly myself, I have come to ask you to be my wife.' Saying which he

opened out his hand, and held it to her. But she did not take it. 'There is my hand, Grace. If your heart is as I

would have it you can give me yours, and I shall want nothing else to make me happy.' But still she made no

motion towards granting him his request. 'If I have been too sudden,' he said, 'you must forgive me for that. I

have been sudden and abrupt, but as things are, no other way has been open to me. Can you not bring

yourself to give me some answer, Grace?' His hand had now fallen again to his side, but he was still standing

She had said no word to him as yet, except that one in which she had acknowledged her love for his child,

and had expressed no surprise, even in her countenance, at his proposal. And yet the idea that he should do

such a thing, since the idea that he certainly would do it had become clear to her, had filled with a world of

surprise. No girl ever lived with any beauty belonging to her who had a smaller knowledge of her own

possession than Grace Crawley. Nor had she the slightest pride in her own acquirements. That she had been

taught in many things more than had been taught to other girls, had come of her poverty and of the desolation

of her home. She had learned to read Greek and Italian because there had been nothing else for her to do in

that sad house. And, subsequently, accuracy of knowledge had been necessary for the earning of her bread. I

think that Grace had at times been weak enough to envy the idleness and almost envy the ignorance of other

girls. Her figure was light, perfect in symmetry, full of grace at all points; but she had thought nothing of her

figure, remembering only the poverty of her dress, but remembering also with a brave resolution that she

would never be ashamed of it. And as her acquaintance with Major Grantly had begun and had grown, and as

she had learned to feel unconsciously that his company was pleasanter to her than that of any other person she

knew, she had still told herself that anything like love must be out of the question. But then words had been

spoken, and there had been glances in his eye, and a tone in his voice, and a touch upon his fingers, of which

she could not altogether refuse to accept the meaning. And others had spoken of it, the two Miss Prettymans

and her friend Lily. Yet she would not admit to herself that it could be so, and she would not allow herself to

confess to herself that she loved him. Then had come the last killing misery to which her father had been

subjected. He had been accused of stealing money, and had been committed to be tried for the theft. From

that moment, at any rate, any hope, if there had been a hope, must be crushed. But she swore to herself

bravely that there had been no such hope. And she assured herself also that nothing had passed which had

entitled her to expect anything beyond ordinary friendship from the man of whom she certainly had thought

much. Even if those touches and those tones and those glances had meant anything, all such meaning must be

annihilated by this disgrace which had come upon her. She might know that her father was innocent; but the

world thought differently, and she, her brothers and sister, and her mother and her poor father, must bend to

the world's opinion. If those dangerous joys had meant anything, they must be taken as meaning nothing

Thus she had argued with herself, and, fortified by such self teachings, she had come down to Allington.

Since she had been with her friends there had come upon her from day to day a clear conviction that her

arguments had been undoubtedly truea clear conviction which had been very cold to her heart in spite of

all her courage. She had expected nothing, hoped for nothing, and yet when nothing came she was sad. She

thought of one special halfhour in which he had said almost all that he might have said more than he

ought to have said;of a moment during which her hand had remained in his; of a certain pressure with

which he had put her shawl upon her shoulders. If he had only written to her one word to tell her that he

believed her father was innocent! But no; she had no right to expect anything from him. And then Lily had

ceased to talk of him, and she did expect nothing. Now he was there before her, asking her to come to him

and be his wife. Yes; she would kiss his shoebuckles, only that the kissing of his shoebuckles would bring

upon him that injury which he should never suffer from her hands! He had been generous, and her selfpride

was satisfied. But her other pride was touched, and she also would be generous. 'Can you not bring yourself

to give me some answer?' he had said to her. Of course she must give him an answer, but how would she give

'I know I ought to thank you if I knew how. My heart is full of thanks; it is indeed.'

'There is no room for love in our house, Major Grantly. You have not seen papa.'

'It would to do no good;none. I only asked you because you can hardly know how sad is our state at home.'

'Can you not? If you saw him, and the house, and my mother, you would not say so. In the Bible it is said of

some season that it is not a time for marrying, or giving in marriage. And so it is with us.'

'I am not pressing you as to a day. I only ask you to say that you will be engaged to meso that I may tell

'I understand all that. I know how good you are. But, Major Grantly, you must understand me also when I

'Must I answer that question? Ought I to be made to answer it? But I will tell you fairly, without touching on

anything else, that I feel that we are all disgraced, and that I will not take that disgrace into another family.'

'I love no one nowthat is, as you mean. I can love no one. I have no room for any feeling except for my

father and mother, and for us all. I should not be here now but that I save my mother the bread that I should

'Yes, it is as bad as that. It is much worse than that, if you knew it all. You cannot conceive how low we have

fallen. And now they tell me that my father will be found guilty, and will be sent to prison. Putting ourselves

out of the question, what would you think of a girl who could engage herself to any man under such

circumstances? What would you think of a girl who would allow herself to be in love in such a position? Had

I been ten times engaged to you, I would have broken it off.' And then she got up to leave him.

But he stopped her, holding her by the arm. 'What you have said will make me say what I certainly should

'There are other ways of speaking than the voice; and I will boast to you, though to no one else, that you have

told me so. I believe you love me. I shall hold myself engaged to you, and I shall think you false if I hear that

'You are my own, my very own. God bless you, dear, dear, dearest Grace. You shall hear from me in a day or

two, and shall see me as soon as this horrid trial is over.' Then he took her in his arms before she could escape

from him, and kissed her forehead and her lips, while she struggled in his arms. After that he left the room

and the house as quickly as he could, and was seen no more of the Dales upon that occasion.

Grace, when she was left alone, threw herself upon the sofa, and hid her face in her hands. She was weeping

almost hysterically, and had been utterly dismayed and frightened by her lover's impetuosity. Things had

gone after a fashion which her imagination had not painted to her as possible. Surely she had the power to

refuse the man if she pleased. And yet she felt as she lay there weeping that she did in truth belong to him as

part of his goods, and that her generosity had been foiled. She had especially resolved that she would not

confess any love to him. She had made no such confession. She had guarded herself against doing so with all

the care which she knew how to use. But he assumed the fact, and she had been unable to deny it. Could she

have lied to him, and sworn that she did not love him? Could she have so perjured herself, even in support of

her generosity? Yes, she would have done soso she told herselfif a moment had been given to her for

thought. She ought to have done so, and she blamed herself for being so little prepared for the occasion. The

lie would be useless now. Indeed, she would have no opportunity for telling it; for of course she would not

answer would not even read his letter. Though he might know that she loved him, yet she would not be his

wife. He had forced her secret from her, but he could not force her to marry him. She did love him, but he

After a while she was able to think of his conduct, and she believed that she ought to be very angry with him.

He had taken her roughly in his arms, and had insulted her. He had forced a kiss from her. She had felt his

arms warm and close and strong about her, and had not known whether she was in paradise or in purgatory.

She was very angry with him. She would send back his letter to him without reading itwithout opening it,

if that might be possible. He had done that to her which nothing could justify. But yetyetyet how dearly

she loved him! Was he not the prince of men? He had behaved badly, of course; but had any man ever

behaved so badly before in so divine a way? Was it not a thousand pities that she should be driven to deny

anything to a lover who so richly deserved everything that could be given to him? He had kissed her hand as

he let her go, and now, not knowing what she did, she kissed the spot on which she had felt his lips. His arm

had been round her waist, and the old frock which she wore should be kept by her for ever, because it had

What was she now to say to Lily and Lily's mother? Of one thing there was no doubt. She would never tell

them of her lover's wicked audacity. That was a secret never to be imparted to any ears. She would keep her

resentment to herself, and not ask the protection of any vicarious wrath. He could never so sin again, that was

certain; and she would keep all her knowledge and memory of the sin for her own purposes. But how could it

be that such a man as that, one so good though so sinful, so glorious though so great a trespasser, should have

come to such a girl as her and have asked for her love? Then she thought of her father's poverty and the

misery of her own condition, and declared to herself that it was very wonderful.

Lily was the first to enter the room, and she, before she did so, learned from the servant that Major Grantly

had left the house. 'I heard the door, miss, and then I saw the top of his hat out of the pantry window.' Armed

with this certain information, Lily entered the drawingroom, and found Grace in the act of rising from the

'No; not at all. I am glad you have come. Kiss me, and be good to me.' And she twined her arms about Lily

Then she hid her face upon her friend's shoulder and broke forth again into hysterical tears.

'I will tell you everything;that is, everything I can.' And Grace blushed as she thought of the one secret

'Has hehas he done what I said he would do? Come, speak out boldly. Has he asked you to be his wife?'

'No, Lily, I have not. Indeed, I have not. I did not know how to speak, because I was surprised;and he, of

course, could say what he liked. But I told him as well as I could, that I would not marry him.'

'Then, if he is the man I take him to be, that answer will go for nothing. Of course he knew all that before he

came here. He did not think you were an heiress with forty thousand pounds. If he is in earnest, that will go

'Do not be sure of that. Women are not allowed to have wills of their own on all occasions. Some man comes

in a girl's way, and she gets to be fond of him, just because he does come in her way. Well; when that has

taken place, she has no alternative but to be taken if he chooses to take her; or to be left, if he chooses to

'But I do say it. A man may assure himself that he will find for himself a wife who shall be learned, or

beautiful, or six feet high, if he wishes it, or who has red hair, or red eyes, or red cheeksjust what he

pleases; and he may go about till he finds it, as you can go about and match your worsteds. You are a fool if

you buy a colour you don't want. But we can never match our worsteds for that other piece of work, but are

obliged to take any colour that comesand, therefore, it is that we make such a jumble of it! Here's mamma.

'But, oh, mamma, what a thing! Fancy his going away and not saying a word to anybody!'

'He asked her to marry him, of course. We none of us had any doubt about that. He swore to her that she and

none but she should be his wifeand all that kind of thing. But he seems to have done it in the most prosaic

way;and now he has gone away without saying a word to any of us. I shall never speak to him

Grace did not answer, as Lily was too quick for her. 'Oh, she has refused him, of course. But, Major Grantly

is a man of too much sense to expect that he should succeed the first time. Let me see; this is the fourteenth.

These clocks run fourteen days, and therefore, you may expect him again about the twentyeighth. For

myself, I think you are giving him an immense deal of unnecessary trouble, and that if he left you in the lurch

it would only serve you right; but you have the world with you, I'm told. A girl is supposed to tell a man two

'I told him no fib, Lily. I told him that I would not marry him and I will not.'

'Because the people say that papa is a thief!' Having said this, Grace walked slowly out of the room, and

'I think he is good too; but she has told me nothing yet of what he has said to her. He must be good, or he

would not have come down here after her. But I don't wonder at his coming, because she is so beautiful!

Once or twice as we were walking back today, I thought her face was the most lovely that I had ever seen.

'Think what she will be in two or three years' time, when he becomes a woman. She talks French, and Italian,

and Hebrew for anything that I know; and she is perfectly beautiful. I never saw a more lovely figure;and

she has spirit enough for a goddess. I don't think that Major Grantly is such a fool after all.'

'I have no doubt all his own people do;or they will, when they hear of it. But, mamma, she will grow to be

big enough to walk atop all the Lady Hartletops in England. It will all come right at last.'

'Oh, yes. Why should it not? If he is worth having, it will;and I think he is worth having. He must wait till

this horrid trial is over. It is clear to me that Grace thinks her father will be convicted.'

'I think he took it, and I think it wasn't his. But I don't think he stole it. I don't know whether you can

'A jury of men will not. I wish they could put you and me on it, mamma. I would take my best boots and eat

them down to the heels, for Grace's sake, and for Major Grantly's. What a goodlooking man he is!'

'And so like a gentleman! I'll tell you what, mamma; we won't say anything to her about him for the present.

Her heart will be so full she will be driven to talk, and we can comfort her better in that way.' The mother and

daughter agreed to act upon these tactics and nothing more was said to Grace about her lover on that evening.

Major Grantly walked from Mrs Dale's house to the inn and ordered his gig, and drove himself out of

Allington, almost without remembering where he was or whither he was going. He was thinking solely of

what had just occurred, and of what, on his part, should follow as the result of that meeting. Half at least of

the noble deeds done in this world are due to emulation, rather than to the native nobility of the actors. A

young man leads a forlorn hope because another young man has offered to do so. Jones in the huntingfield

rides at an impracticable fence because he is told Smith took it three years ago. And Walker puts his name

down for ten guineas at a charitable dinner when he hears Thompson's read out for five. And in this case the

generosity and selfdenial shown by Grace warmed and cherished similar virtues within her lover's breast.

Some few weeks ago Major Grantly had been in doubt as to what his duty required of him in reference to

Grace Crawley; but he had no doubt whatsoever now. In the fervour of his admiration he would have gone

straight to the archdeacon, had it been possible, and have told him what he had done and what he intended to

do. Nothing now should stop him;no consideration, that is, either as regarded money or position. He had

pledged himself solemnly, and he was very glad that he had pledged himself. He would write to Grace and

explain to her that he trusted altogether in her father's honour and innocence, but that no consideration as to

that ought to influence either him or her in any way. If, independently of her father, she could bring herself to

come to him and be his wife, she was bound to do so now, let the position of her father be what it might. And

thus, as he drove his gig back towards Guestwick, he composed a very pretty letter to the lady of his love.

And as he went, at the corner of the lane which led from the main road up to Guestwick cottage, he again

came upon John Eames, who was also returning to Guestwick. There had been a few words spoken between

Lady Julia and Johnny respecting Major Grantly after the girls had left the cottage, and Johnny had been

persuaded that the strange visitor to Allington could have no connexion with his archenemy. 'And why has

'Well; if you ask me, I think he has gone there to see your cousin, Grace Crawley.'

'He told me that he knew Grace,' said John, looking as though he were conscious of his own ingenuity in

'I didn't look at her,' said Johnny. Therefore, when he again met Major Grantly, having continued to put two

and two together with great ingenuity, he felt quite sure that the man had nothing to do with the archenemy,

and he determined to be gracious. 'Did you find them at home at Allington,' he said, raising his hat.

'How do you do again?' said the major. 'Yes, I found your friend Mrs Dale at home.'

'But not her daughter, or my cousin? They were up there;where I've come from. But, perhaps, they had got

'Well, no. I remembered that I wanted to get back to London; and as I had seen my friends, I thought I might

'No, I didn't. I never saw her in my life before. But I knew the old squire when I was a boy. However, I

John Eames perceived that his companion put a strong emphasis on the word 'her', as though he were

determined to declare boldly that he had gone to Allington solely to see Grace Crawley. He had not the

slightest objection to recognising in Major Grantly a suitor for his cousin's hand. He could only reflect what

an unusually fortunate girl Grace must be if such a thing could be true. Of those poor Crawleys he had only

heard from time to time that their misfortunes were as numerous as the sands on the seashore, and as

unsusceptible of any fixed and permanent arrangement. But, as regarded Grace, there would be a very

permanent arrangement. Tidings had reached him that Grace was a great scholar, but he had never heard

much of her beauty. It must probably be the case that Major Grantly was fond of Greek. There was, he

reminded himself, no accounting for tastes; but as nothing could be more respectable than such an alliance, he

'Very sad,' said Johnny. Perhaps the major had heard about the accusation for the first time today, and was

going to find an escape on that plea. If such was the case, it would not be so well to be particularly civil.

'I believe so. I don't know much about them myselfthat is, personally. Of course I have heard of this charge

'Well, I can't exactly say that it is a shame. I do not know that there has been anything done with a feeling of

persecution or of cruelty. It is a great mystery, and we must have it cleared up if we can.'

'Certainly not in the ordinary sense of the word. I heard all the evidence against him.'

'Yes,' said the major. 'I live near them in Barsetshire, and I am one of his bailsmen.'

'Not exactly that; but circumstances made me very much interested about them. I fancy that the cheque was

left in his house by accident, and that it got into his hands he didn't know how, and that when he used it he

'The great cruelty is,' said the major, 'that whatever may be the result, the punishment will fall so heavily

upon his wife and daughters. I think the whole county ought to come forward and take them by the hand.

'Goodbye,' said Johnny. 'I'm very glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you.' 'He's a good sort of fellow

after all,' he said to himself when the gig had passed on. 'He wouldn't have talked in that way if he meant to

Mr Crawley had declared to Mr Robarts, that he would summon no legal aid to his assistance at the coming

trial. The reader may, perhaps, remember the impetuosity with which he rejected the advice on this subject

which was conveyed to him by Mr Robarts with all the authority of Archdeacon Grantly's name. 'Tell the

archdeacon,' he had said, 'that I will have none of his advice.' And then Mr Robarts had left him, fully

convinced that any further interference on his part could be of no avail. Nevertheless, the words which had

then been spoken were not without effect. This coming trial was ever present to Mr Crawley's mind, and

though, when driven to discuss the subject, he would speak of it with high spirit, as he had done both to the

bishop and to Mr Robarts, yet in his long hours of privacy, or when alone with his wife, his spirit was

anything but high. 'It will kill me,' he would say to her. 'I shall get salvation thus. Death will relieve me, and I

shall never be called upon to stand before those cruel eager eyes.' Then she would try to say words of

comfort, sometimes soothing him, as though he were a child, and at others bidding him to be a man, and

remember that as a man he should have sufficient endurance to bear the eyes of any crowd that might be there

'I think I will go up to London,' he said to her one evening, very soon after the day of Mr Robarts's visit.

'Go up to London, Josiah!' Mr Crawley had not been up to London once since they had been settled at

Hogglestock, and this sudden resolution on his part frightened his wife. 'Go up to London, dearest! And

'I will tell you why. They all say that I should speak to some man of the law whom I may trust about this

coming trial. I trust no one in these parts. Not, mark you, that I say that they are untrustworthy. God forbid

that I should so speak or even so think of men whom I know not. But the matter has become common in

men's mouths at Barchester and at Silverbridge, that I cannot endure to go among them and to talk of it. I will

go up to London, and I will see your cousin, Mr John Toogood, of Gray's Inn.' Now in this scheme there was

an amount of everyday prudence which startled Mrs Crawley almost as much as did the prospect of the

difficulties to be overcome if the journey were to be made. Her husband in the first place, had never once

seen Mr John Toogood; and in days very long back, when he and she were making their first gallant

strugglefor in those days it had been gallantdown in their Cornish curacy, he had reprobated certain

Toogood civilitiesprofessional civilitieswhich had been proffered, perhaps, with too plain an intimation

that on the score of relationship the professional work should be done without payment. The Mr Toogood of

those days, who had been Mrs Crawley's uncle, and the father of Mrs Eames and grandfather or our friend

Johnny Eames, had been much angered by some correspondence which had grown up between him and Mr

Crawley, and from that day there had been a cessation of all intercourse between the families. Since those

days that Toogood had been gathered to the ancient Toogoods of old, and the son reigned on the family

throne in Raymond Buildings. The present Toogood was therefore first cousin to Mrs Crawley. But there had

been no intimacy between them. Mrs Crawley had not seen her cousin since her marriageas indeed she had

seen none of her relations, having been estranged from them by the singular bearing of her husband. She

knew that her cousin stood high in his profession, the firm of Toogood and CrumpCrump and Toogood it

should have been properly been called in these dayshaving always held its head up high above all dirty

work; and she felt that her husband could look for advice from no better source. But how would such a one as

he manage to tell his story to a stranger? Nay, how would he find his way alone into the lawyer's room, to tell

his story at allso strange was he to the world? And then the expense! 'If you do not wish me to apply to

your cousin, say so, and there shall be an end of it,' said Mr Crawley in an angry tone.

'Of course I would wish it. I believe him to be an excellent man, and a good lawyer.'

'Then why should I not go to his chambers? In forma pauperis I must go to him, and must tell him so. I

cannot pay him for the labour of his counsel, nor for such minutes of his time as I shall use.'

'But I must speak of it. Can I go to a professional man; who keeps as it were his shop open for those who may

think fit to come, and purchase of him, and take of his goods, and afterwards, when the goods have been

used, tell him that I have not the price in my hand? I will not do that, Mary. You think that I am mad, that I

know not what I do. YesI see it in your eyes; and you are sometimes partly right. But I am not so mad but

that I know what is honest. I will tell your cousin that I am sore straitened, and brought down into the very

dust by misfortune. And I will beseech him, for what of ancient feeling of family he may bear to you, to listen

to me for a while. And I will be very short, and, if need be, will bide his time patiently, and perhaps he may

There was certainly very much in this to provoke Mrs Crawley. It was not only that she knew well that her

cousin would give ample and immediate attention, and lend himself thoroughly to the matter without any idea

of paymentbut that she could not quite believe that her husband's humility was true humility. She strove to

believe it, but she knew that she failed. After all it was only a feeling on her part. There was no argument

within herself about it. An unpleasant taste came across the palate of her mind, as such a savour will

sometimes, from some unexpected source, come across the palate of the mouth. Well; she could only gulp at

it, and swallow it an excuse it. Among the salad that comes from your garden a bitter leaf will now and then

make its way into your saladbowl. Alas, there were so many bitter leaves ever making their way into her

bowl! 'What I mean is, Josiah, that no long explanation will be needed. I think from what I remember of him,

'Then I will go to the man, and will humble myself before him. Even that, hard as it is to me, may be a duty

that I owe.' Mr Crawley as he said this was remembering the fact that he was a clergyman of the Church of

England, and that he had a rank of his own in the country, which, did he ever do such a thing as go out for

dinner in company, would establish for him a certain right of precedence; whereas this attorney, of whom he

'There need be no humbling, Josiah, other than that which is due from a man to man in all circumstances. But

never mind; we will not talk about that. If it seems good to you, go to Mr Toogood. I think that it is good.

Then the wife paused before she asked the next questionpaused for some minute or two, and than asked it

'Why should two go when one can do the work?' he answered sharply. 'Have we money so much to

'You should go and do it all, for you are wiser in these things than I am, were it not that I may not dare to

'But it is ay, my dear. It is so. This is a thing such as men do; not such as women do, unless they be forlorn

and unaided of men. I know that I am weak where you are strong; that I am crazed where you are

'Nevertheless it is as I say; but, for all that, it may not be that you should do my work. There are those

watching me who would say, "Lo! He confesses himself incapable." And then someone would whisper

'But I must look to it, my dear. Do you think that that woman, who sits at Barchester in high places,

disgracing herself and that puny ecclesiastical lord who is her husbanddo you think that she would not

immure me if she could? She is a shewolfonly less reasonable than the dumb brute as she sharpens her

teeth in malice coming from anger, and not in malice coming from hunger as do the outer wolves of the

forest. I tell you, Mary, that if she had a colourable ground for her action, she would swear tomorrow that I

'Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I cannot yet do my own work as a man should do. I stood up

before him, the puny man who is called a bishop, and before her who makes herself great by his littleness,

and I scorned them both to their faces. Though the shoes which I had on were broken, as I myself could not

but see when I stood, yet I was greater than they were with all their purple and fine linen.'

'Illusage you can bear; and violent illusage, such as that which Mrs Proudie allowed herself to exhibit, you

'I will struggle. I will endeavour. I will speak but little, and, if possible, I will listen much. Now, my dear, I

will write to this man, and you shall give me the address that is proper for him.' Then he wrote the letter, not

accepting a word in the way of dictation from his wife, but 'craving great kindness of a short interview, for

which he ventured to become a solicitor, urged thereto by his wife's assurance that one with whom he was

connected by family ties would do as much as this for the possible preservation of the honour of the family.'

In answer to this Mr Toogood wrote back as follows:'Dear Mr Crawley, I will be at my office all Thursday

morning next from ten to two, and will take care that you shan't be kept waiting for me above ten minutes.

You parsons never like waiting. But hadn't you better come and breakfast with me and Maria at nine? Then

we'd have a talk as we walked to the office. Yours always, THOMAS TOOGOOD.' And the letter was dated

'Doubtless he means to be kind. But kindness is rough;I will not say unmannerly, as the word would be

'So I would venture to suppose; but she is unknown to me. I will write again, and thank him, and say that I

There were still many things to be settled before the journey could be made. Mr Crawley, in his first plan,

proposed that he should go up by night mail train, travelling in the third class, having walked over to

Silverbridge to meet it; that he should then walk about London from 5am to 10am, and afterwards come

down by an afternoon train to which a third class was also attached. But at last his wife persuaded him that

such a task as that, performed in the middle of winter, would be enough to kill any man, and that, if

attempted, it would certainly kill him; and he consented at last to sleep the night in townbeing specially

moved thereto by discovering that he could, in conformity with this scheme, get in and out of the train at a

station considerably nearer to him than Silverbridge, and that he could get a returnticket at a thirdclass

fare. The whole journey, he found, could be done for a pound, allowing him seven shillings for his night's

expenses in London; and out of the resources of the family there were produced two sovereigns, so that in the

So he started on his journey after an early dinner, almost hopeful through the new excitement of a journey to

London, and his wife walked with him nearly as far as the station. 'Do not reject my cousin's kindness,' were

'For his professional kindness, if he will extend it to me, I will be most thankful,' he replied. She did not dare

to say more; nor had she dared to write privately to her cousin, asking for any special help, lest by doing so

she should seem to impugn the sufficiency and stability of her husband's judgment. He got up to town late at

night, and having made inquiry of one of the porters, he hired a bed for himself in the neighbourhood of the

railway station. Here he had a cup of tea and a morsel of breadandbutter, and in the morning he

breakfasted again on the same fare. 'No I have no luggage,' he had said to the girl at the publichouse, who

had asked him as to his travelling gear. 'If luggage be needed as a certificate of respectability, I will pass on

elsewhere,' said he. The girl stared, and assured him that she did not doubt his respectability. 'I am a

clergyman of the Church of England,' he had said, 'but my circumstances prevent me from seeking a more

expensive lodging.' They did their best to make him comfortable, and, I think, almost disappointed him in not

He was in Raymond's Buildings at halfpast nine, and for half an hour walked up and down the umbrageous

pavementit used to be umbrageous, but perhaps the trees have gone nowbefore the doors of the various

chambers. He could hear the clock strike from Gray's Inn; and the moment that it had struck he was turning

in, but was encountered in the passage by Mr Toogood, who was equally punctual with himself. Strange

stories about Mr Crawley had reached Mr Toogood's household, and that Maria, the mention of whose

Christian name had been so offensive to the clergyman, had begged her husband not to be a moment late.

Poor Mr Toogood, who on ordinary days did perhaps take a few minutes' grace, was thus hurried away

almost with his breakfast in his throat, and, as we have seen, just saved himself. 'Perhaps, sir, you are Mr

Crawley?' he said, in a goodhumoured, cheery voice. He was a goodhumoured, cheerylooking man, about

fifty years of age, with grizzled hair and sunburnt face, and large whiskers. Nobody would have taken him to

be a partner in any of those great houses of which we have read in historythe Quirk, Gammon and Snaps

'That is my name, sir,' said Mr Crawley, taking off his hat and bowing low, 'and I am here by appointment to

'I am Mr Toogood, the solicitor, and I hope to see you quite well, Mr Crawley.' Then the attorney shook

hands with the clergyman and preceded him upstairs to the front room on the first floor. 'Here we are, Mr

Crawley, and pray take a chair. I wish you could have made it convenient to come and see us at home. We are

rather long, as my wife sayslong in family, she means, and therefore are not very well off for spare

'I've twelve of 'em living, Mr Crawleyfrom eighteen years, the eldesta girl, down to eighteen months the

youngesta boy, and they go in and out, boy and girl, boy and girl, like the cogs of a wheel. They ain't such

far away distant cousins from your own young onesonly first, once, as we call it.'

'I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should not have ventured to trouble you.'

'Blood is thicker than water, isn't it? I often say that. I heard of one your girls only yesterday. She is staying

somewhere down in the country, not far from where my sister livesMrs Eames, the widow of poor John

'Of course it is. I've a nephew down there just now, and he saw your girl the other day;very highly spoke of

'I've just four times three;that's the difference. But I comfort myself with the text about the quiver you

know; and I tell them that when they've eat up all the butter, they'll have to take their bread dry.'

'I don't know much about spirit. There's spirit enough. My second girl, Lucy, told me that if I came here today

without tickets for the pantomime I shouldn't have any dinner allowed me. That's the way they treat me. But

we understand each other at home. We're all pretty good friends there, thank God. And there isn't a sick chick

'You have many mercies for which you should indeed be thankful,' said Mr Crawley, gravely.

'Yes, yes, yes; that's true. I think of that sometimes, though perhaps not so much as I ought to do. But the best

way to be thankful is to use the goods the gods provide you. "The lovely Thais sits beside you. Take the

goods the gods provide you." I often say that to my wife, till the children have got calling her Thais. The

By this time Mr Crawley was almost beside himself, and was altogether at a loss how to bring in the matter

on which he wished to speak. He had expected to find a man who in the hurry of London business might

perhaps just manage to spare him five minuteswho would grapple instantly with the subject that was to be

discussed between them, would speak to him halfadozen hard words of wisdom, and would then dismiss

him and turn on the instant to other matters of important business;but here was an easy familiar fellow,

who seemed to have nothing on earth to do, and who at this first meeting had taken advantage of a distant

family connexion to tell him everything about the affairs of his own household. And then how peculiar were

the domestic affairs which he told! What was Mr Crawley to say to a man who had taught his own children to

call their mother Thais? Of Thais Mr Crawley did know something, and he forgot to remember that perhaps

Mr Toogood knew less. He felt it, however, to be very difficult to submit the details of his case to a

But something must be done. Mr Crawley, in his present frame of mind, could not sit and talk about Thais all

day. 'Sir,' he said, 'the picture of your home is very pleasant, and I presume that plenty abounds there.'

'Well, you know, pretty tollloll for that. With twelve of 'em, Mr Crawley, I needn't tell you they are not all

going to have castles and parks of their own, unless they can get 'em off their own bats. But I pay upwards of

a hundred a year each for my eldest three boys' schooling, and I've been paying eighty for the girls. Put that

'I don't think there's a girl in Tavistock Square that can beat Pollyshe's the eldest, called after her mother,

you knowthat can beat her at the piano. And Lucy has read Lord Byron and Tom Moore all through, every

word of 'em. By Jove, I believe she knows most of Tom Moore by heart. And the young uns a coming on just

'We'll tackle to? Very well; so be it. Now, Mr Crawley, let me hear what it is I can do for you.' Of a sudden,

as Mr Toogood spoke these last words, the whole tone of his voice seemed to change, and even the position

of his body became so much altered as to indicate a different kind of man. 'You just tell your story in your

'I must first crave your attention to an unfortunate preliminary,' said Mr Crawley.

'I come before you in forma pauperis.' Here Mr Crawley paused and stood up before the attorney with his

hands crossed one upon the other, bending low, as though calling attention to the poorness of his raiment. 'I

know that I have no justification for my conduct. I have nothing of reason to offer why I should trespass upon

'Don't let us have any more of this,' said the attorney. 'We none of us like that kind of thing at all. If I can be

of any service to you, you're as welcome as flowers in May; and as for billing my firstcousin, which your

'Very well; now you have been explicit with a vengeance, and you may heave ahead. Let's hear the story, and

if I can help you I will. When I've said that, you may be sure I mean it. I've heard something of it before; but

Then Mr Crawley began and told his story. Mr Toogood was actually true to his promise and let the narrator

go on with his narrative without interruption. When Mr Crawley came to his own statement that the cheque

had been paid to him by Mr Soames, and went on to say that that statement had been false'I told him that,

but I told him so wrongly,' and then paused, thinking that the lawyer would ask some question, Mr Toogood

simply said, 'Go on; go on. I'll come back to all that when you've done.' And he merely nodded his head when

Mr Crawley spoke of his second statement, that the money had come from the dean. 'We had been bound

together by close ties of early familiarity,' said Mr Crawley, 'and in former years our estates in life were the

same. But he has prospered and I have failed. And when creditors were importunate, I consented to accept

relief in money which had previously been often offered. And I must acknowledge, Mr Toogood, while

saying this, that I have knownhave known with heartfelt agonythat at former times my wife has taken

that from my friend Mr Arabin, with hand halfhidden from me, which I have refused. Whether it be better to

eatthe bread of charity or not to eat bread at all, I, for myself, have no doubt,' he said; 'but when the

want strikes one's wife and children, and the charity strikes only oneself, then there is a doubt.' When he

spoke thus, Mr Toogood got up, and thrusting his hands in his waistcoat pockets walked about the room,

exclaiming, 'By George, by George, by George!' But he still let the man go on with his story, and heard him

'And they committed you for trial at the next Barchester assizes?' said the lawyer.

'You were wrong there, Mr Crawley. I must be allowed to say that you were wrong there.'

'I may possibly have been so from your point of view, Mr Toogood; but permit me to explain. I'

'It's no good explaining now. Of course you must employ a lawyer for your defencean attorney who will

'You must do it. If you don't do it, your friends should do it for you. If you don't do it, everybody will say

you're mad. There isn't a single solicitor you could find within a half a mile of you at this moment who

wouldn't give you the same advice not a single man, either, who had got a head on his shoulders worth a

When Mr Crawley was told that madness would be laid at his charge if he did not do as he was bid, his face

became very black, and assumed something of that look of determined obstinacy which it had worn when he

was standing in the presence of the bishop and Mrs Proudie. 'It may be so,' he said. 'It may be as you say, Mr

Toogood. But these neighbours of yours, as to whose collected wisdom you speak with so much certainty,

would hardly recommend me to indulge in a luxury for which I have no means of paying.'

'The wretched costermonger that comes to grief has a barrister in a wig and gown to give him his chance of

'But I am not a costermonger, Mr Toogoodthough more wretched perhaps than any costermonger now in

existence. It is my lot to have to endure the sufferings of poverty, and at the same time not be exempt from

those feelings of honour to which poverty is seldom subject. I cannot afford to call in legal assistance for

'I'll carry the case through for you. It certainly is not just my line of businessbut I'll see it carried through

'No, Mr Toogood; this thing you can not do. But do not suppose I am the less grateful.'

'What is it that I can do then? Why do you come to me if you won't take my advice?'

After this the conversation went on for a considerable time without touching on any point which need be

brought palpably before the reader's eye. The attorney continued to beg the clergyman to have his case

managed in the usual way, and went so far as to tell him that he would be illtreating his wife and family if

he continued to be obstinate. But the clergyman was not shaken from his resolve, and was at last able to ask

Mr Toogood what he had better dohow he had better attempt to defend himselfon the understanding that

no legal aid was to be employed. When this question was at last asked in such a way as to demand an answer,

Mr Toogood sat for a moment or two in silence. He felt that an answer was not only demanded, but almost

'Mr Toogood,' said Mr Crawley, seeing the attorney's hesitation, 'I declare to you before God, that my only

object will be to enable the jury to know about this sad matter all that I know myself. If I could open my

breast to them I should be satisfied. But then a prisoner can say nothing; and what he does so is ever

'We had already come to a conclusion on that matter, as I thought,' said Mr Crawley.

Mr Toogood paused for a another moment or two, and then dashed at his answer; or rather, dashed at a

counter question. 'Mr Crawley, where did you get the cheque? You must pardon me, you know; or, if you

'Absolutely; totally. I wish, Mr Toogood, I could explain to you the toilsome perseverance with which I have

cudgelled my poor brains, endeavouring to extract from them some scintilla of memory that would aid me.'

'No;no; that I did not do. Dull as I am, I know so much. It was mine of right, from whatever source it came

to me. I know myself as no one else can know me, in spite of the wise man's motto. Had I picked up a cheque

in my house, or on the road, I should not have slept till I had taken steps to restore it to the seeming owner.

So much I can say. But, otherwise, I am in such matter so shandypated, that I can trust myself to be sure of

'I thought that it had been given to me by my friend the dean. I remember well that I was in his library at

Barchester, and I was somewhat provoked in spirit. There were lying on the floor hundreds of volumes, all

glittering with gold, and reeking with new leather from binders. He asked me to look at his toys. Why should

I look at them? There was a time, but the other day it seemed, when he had been glad to borrow from me such

treasures as I had. And it seemed to me that he was heartless in showing me these things. Well; I need not

'I know now how vain, how vile I was. I always know afterwards how low the spirit has grovelled. I had gone

to him then because I had resolved to humble myself, and, for my wife's sake, to ask my friendfor money.

With words which were very awkwardwhich no doubt were ungraciousI had asked him, and he had bid

me follow him from his hall into his library. There he left me awhile, and on returning told me with a smile

that he had sent for moneyand, if I can remember, the sum he named was fifty pounds.'

'But it has turned out, as you say, that you have paid fifty pounds with his moneybesides the cheque.'

'That is true;that is quite true. There is no doubt of that. But as I was sayingthen he fell to talking about

the books, and I was angered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in which the words of beggary

had passed from my lips, I had repented. And he had laughed and had taken it gaily. I turned upon him and

told him that I had changed my mind. I was grateful, but I would not have his money. And so I prepared to

go. But he argued with me, and would not let me gotelling me of my wife and of my children, and while

he argued there came a knock on the door, and something was handed in, and I knew that it was the hand of

'Yes, Mr Toogood; it was the money. And I became the more uneasy, because she herself is rich. I liked it the

less because it seemed to come from her hand. But I took it. What could I do when he reminded me that I

could not keep my parish unless certain sums were paid? He gave me a little parcel in a cover, and I took

itand left him sorrowing. I had never before come quite to that;though, indeed, it had in fact been often

so before. What was the difference whether the alms were given into my hands or into my wife's?'

'Of course I am. Do you try it, and see whether you will be touchy. You have worked hard at your profession,

'Well, yes; pretty well. To tell the truth, I have worked hard. By George, yes! It's not so bad now as it used to

'But you have always earned your bread; bread for yourself, and bread for your wife and little ones. You can

'I have worked as hard, and yet I cannot get bread. I am older than you, and I cannot earn my bare bread.

Look at my clothes. If you had to go and beg from Mr Crump, would you not be touchy?'

'Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and for two days I did not look at it. And then there came an

illness upon me, and I know not what passed. But two men who had been hard on me came to the house when

I was out, and my wife was in a terrible state; and I gave her the money, and she went into Silverbridge and

'No; I gave her money in notesjust fifty pounds. When I gave it her, I thought I gave it all; and yet

afterwards I thought I remembered that in my illness I had found the cheque with the dean's money. But it

'He has said that he put fives notes of ten pounds each into the cover, and such notes I certainly gave to my

'Where then did you get the cheque?' Mr Crawley again paused before he answered. 'Surely, if you will exert

Mr Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took his knee up into his lap to nurse it, and began to think of it.

He sat thinking of it for some minutes without a wordperhaps for five minutes, though the time seemed to

be much longer to Mr Crawley, who was, however, determined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr

Toogood's thoughts were at variance with Mr Toogood's former words. Perhaps, after all, this scheme of Mr

Crawley'sor rather the mode of defence on which he had resolved without any schememight be the best

of which the case admitted. It might be well that he should go into court without a lawyer. 'He has convinced

me of his innocence,' Mr Toogood said to himself, 'and why should he not convince a jury? He has convinced

me, not because I am specially soft, or because I love the manfor as to that I dislike him rather than

otherwise;but because there is either real truth in his words, or else so wellfeigned a show a truth that no

jury can tell the difference. I think it is true. By George, I think he did get the twenty pounds honestly, and

that he does not this moment know where he got it. He may have put his finger into my eye; but, if so, why

not also into the eyes of a jury?' Then he released his leg, and spoke something of his thoughts aloud. 'It's a

'I haven't a doubt but what you're as innocent as I am.' Mr Toogood, as he said this, felt a little tinge of

conscience. He did believe Mr Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his words would seem

'I don't know,' said Mr Crawley. 'I don't know. I think I am; but I don't know.'

'I believe you are. But you see the case is a very distressing one. A jury has a right to say that the man in

possession of a cheque for twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If I understand the story

aright, Mr Soames will be able to prove that he brought the cheque into your house, and, as far as he knows,

'I suppose so; all the same, if he brought it in, then did he take it out again.'

'I am saying what he will proveor, in other words, what he will state upon oath. You can't contradict him.

You can't get into the box to do iteven if that would be of any avail; and I am glad that you cannot, as it

'That is to say, we think you cannot do so. People can do so many things that they don't think they can do;

and can't do so many things that they think that they can do! When will the dean be home?'

'I wish he might be there if he has anything to say, whether it might be for harm or good.'

'So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. He has no cure of souls to stand in the way of his pleasures.'

'He hasn'thasn't he? I wish I were a dean; that is, if I were not a lawyer. Might I write a line to the

deanand to Mrs Dean if it seemed fit? You wouldn't mind that? As you have come to see your cousin at

lastand very glad I am that you haveyou must leave him a little discretion. I won't say anything I

oughtn't to say.' Mr Crawley opposed this scheme for some time, but at last consented to the proposition.

'And I'll tell you what, Mr Crawley; I am very fond of cathedrals, I am indeed; and I have long wanted to see

Barchester. There's a very fine whatyoumaycallem; isn't there? Well; I'll just run down at the assizes.

We have nothing to do in London when the judges are in the countryof course.' Mr Toogood looked into

Mr Crawley's eyes as he said this, to see if his iniquity were detected, but the perpetual curate was altogether

innocent in these matters. 'Yes; I'll just run down for a mouthful of fresh air. Of course I shan't open my

mouth in court. But I might say one word to the dean, if he's there;and one word to Mr Soames. Who is

conducting the prosecution?' Mr Crawley said that Mr Walker was doing so. 'Walker, Walker, Walker?

'And that's saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, Mr Crawley, if nothing else comes out between this and

thatnothing, that is, that shall clear your memory about that unfortunate bit of paper, you must simply tell

your story to the jury as you've told it to me. I don't think any twelve men in England would convict you;I

'But judging as well as I can judge from one side, I don't think a jury can convict you. At any rate, I'll see you

at Barchester, and I'll write a line or two before the trial just to find out anything that can be found out. And

you're sure you won't come and take a bit of mutton with us in the Square? The girls would be delighted to

see you, and so would Maria.' Mr Crawley said that he was quite sure he could not do that, and then having

tendered reiterated thanks to his new friend in words which were touching in spite of their oldfashioned

gravity, he took his leave, and walked back again to the publichouse at Paddington.

He returned home to Hogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching that place at nine in the evening. During

the whole of the day after leaving Raymond's Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of the words

which the lawyer had spoken. Although he had been disposed to quarrel with Mr Toogood on many points,

although he had been more than once disgusted by the attorney's bad taste, shocked by his low morality, and

almost insulted by his easy familiarity, still, when the interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first

Mr Toogood had begun to talk, he regretted very much that he had subjected himself to the necessity of

discussing his private affairs with such a windbag of a man; but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr

Toogood altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. He was tired and exhausted when he

reached home, as he had eaten nothing but a biscuit or two since his breakfast; but his wife got him food and

'Very kindmore than kindperhaps somewhat too pressing in his kindness. But I find no fault. God forbid

'Nevertheless, I thank God that someone will be there who will know how to give you assistance and advice.'

The letters had been brought into the breakfastparlour at Plumstead Rectory one morning, and the

archdeacon had inspected them all, and then thrown over to his wife her share of the spoil as was the

custom of the house. As to most of Mrs Grantly's letters, he never made any further inquiry. To letters from

her sister, the dean's wife, he was profoundly indifferent, and rarely made any inquiry as to those which were

directed in writing with which he was not familiar. But there were others as to which, as Mrs Grantly knew,

he would be sure to ask her questions if she did not show them. No note ever reached her from Lady

Harteltop as to which he was not curious, and yet Lady Hartletop's notes very seldom contained much that

was of interest. Now, on this morning, there came a letter which, as a matter of course, Mrs Grantly read at

breakfast, and which, she knew, would not be allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor, indeed, did she wish

to keep the letter from her husband. It was too important to be so treated. But she would have been glad to

gain time to think in what spirit she would discuss the contents of the letterif only such time might be

allowed to her. But the archdeacon would allow her no time. 'What does Henry say, my dear?' he asked,

'Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is.' She knew very well that when she had once been asked for it,

no peace would be allowed her till he had seen it. And, alas! there was not much probability of peace in the

The archdeacon read the three or first lines in silenceand then burst out. 'He has, has he? Then, by

'Stop, dearest; stop,' said his wife, rising from her chair and coming over to him; 'do not say words which you

'I will say words which shall make him repent. He shall never have from me a son's portion.'

'Do not make threats in anger. Do not! You know that it is wrong. If he has offended you, say nothing about

iteven to yourselfas to threatened punishments, till you can judge of the offence in cool blood.'

'No, my dear; no; you are angry. And you have not even read his letter through.'

'You will see that the marriage is not imminent. It may be that even yet it will never take place. The young

'You will see that she has done so. He tells us so himself. And she has behaved very properly.'

'There can be no doubt about the reason. She feels that, with this charge hanging over her father, she is not in

a position to become the wife of any gentleman. You cannot but respect her for that.'

The archdeacon finished his son's letter, uttering sundry interjections and ejaculations as he did so.

'Of course; I knew it. I understood it all,' he said at last. 'I've nothing to do with the girl. I don't care whether

'I care not at allwith reference to my own concerns. Of course I would wish that the daughter of a

neighbouring clergyman that the daughter of any neighbourthat the daughter of anyone

whatsoevershould be good rather than bad. But as regards Henry and me, and our mutual relation, her

goodness can make no difference. Let her be another Grizel, and still such a marriage must estrange him from

'Yes; and what does he say?that he has told her that he will not accept her refusal. Of course we know what

it all means. The girl I am not judging. The girl I will not judge. But my own son, to whom I have ever done a

father's duty with a father's affectionate indulgencehim I will judge. I have warned him, and he declares

himself to be careless of my warning. I shall take no notice of this letter. I shall neither write to him about it

or speak to him about it. But I charge you to write to him and tell him that if he does this thing he shall not

have a child's portion from me. It is not that I will shorten that which would have been his; but he shall

havenothing!' Then, having spoken these words with a solemnity which for the moment silenced his wife,

he got up and left the room. He left the room and closed the door, but, before he had gone half the length of

the hall towards his own study, he returned and addressed his wife again. 'You understand my instructions, I

'I will speak no more about itnot a word more. Let there be not a word more said, but oblige me by doing

Then he was again about to leave the room, but she stopped him. 'Wait a moment, my dear.'

'That you may listen to me. Surely you will do that, when I ask you. I will write to Henry, of course, if you

bid me; and I will give him your message, whatever it may be; but not today, my dear.'

'Because the sun shall go down on your wrath before I become its messenger. If you choose to write that

yourself, I cannot help it. I cannot hinder you. If I am to write to him on your behalf I will take my

instructions from you tomorrow morning. When tomorrow morning comes you will not be angry with me

The archdeacon was by no means satisfied; but he knew his wife too well, and himself too well, and the

world too well, to insist on the immediate gratification of his passion. Over his bosom's mistress he did

exercise a certain marital controlwhich was, for instance, quite sufficiently fixed to enable him to look

down with thorough contempt on such a one a Bishop Proudie; but he was not a despot who could exact a

passive obedience to every fantasy. His wife would not have written the letter for him on that day, and he

knew very well that she would not do so. He knew also that she was right;and yet he regretted his want of

power. His anger at the present moment was very hotso hot that he wished to wreak it. He knew that it

would cool before the morrow;and, no doubt, knew also theoretically, that it would be most fitting that it

should be cool. But not the less was it a matter of regret to him that so much good hot anger should be

wasted, and that he could not have his will of his disobedient son while it lasted. He might, no doubt, have

written himself, but to have done so would not have suited him. Even in his anger he could not have written

to his son without using the ordinary terms of affection, and in his anger he could not bring himself to use

those terms. 'You will find that I shall be of the same mind tomorrowexactly,' he said to his wife. 'I have

resolved about it long since; and it is not likely that I shall change in a day.' Then he went out, about his

parish, intending to continue to think of his son's iniquity, so that he might keep his anger hotred hot. Then

he remembered that the evening would come, and that he would say his prayers; and he shook his head in

regretin a regret of which he was only half conscious, though it was very keen, and which he did not

attempt to analyseas he reflected that his rage would hardly be able to survive that ordeal. How common

The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had purchased a property at Plumstead, contiguous to the

glebeland, and had thus come to exercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire. And of this

estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the confines of Plumstead into the neighbouring parish of

StogpingumStoke Pinguium would have been the proper name had not the barbarous Saxon tongues

clipped it of its proper proportionshe had always intended that his son Charles should enjoy the

inheritance. There was other property, both in land and in money, for his elder son, and other again for the

maintenance of his wife, for the archdeacon's father had been for many years Bishop of Barchester, and such

a bishopric as that of Barchester had been in those days worth money. Of his intention in this respect he had

never spoken in plain language to either of his sons; but the major had for the last year or two enjoyed the

shooting of the Barsetshire covers, giving what orders he pleased about the game; and the father had

encouraged him to take something like the management of the property into his hands. There might have

been some fifteen hundred acres of it altogether, and the archdeacon had rejoiced over it with his wife scores

of times, saying that there was many a squire in the county whose elder son would never find himself so well

placed as would his own younger son. Now there was a string of narrow woods called Plumstead Coppices

which ran from a point near the church right across the parish, dividing the archdeacon's land from the

Ullathorne estate, and these coppices, or belts of woodland, belonged to the archdeacon. On the morning of

which we are speaking, the archdeacon mounted on his cob, still thinking of his son's iniquity and of his own

fixed resolve to punish him as he had said that he would punish him, opened with his whip a woodland gate,

from which a green muddy lane led through the trees up to the house of the gamekeeper. The man's wife was

ill, and in his ordinary way of business the archdeacon was about to call and ask after her health. At the door

of the cottage he found the man, who was woodman as well as gamekeeper, and was responsible for fences

'Thanking your reverence, she be a deal improved since the mistress was herelast Tuesday it was, I think.'

'Tell her I was asking after it. I won't mind getting down today, as I am rather busy. She has had what she

'Goodday to you, Flurry. I'll ask Mr Sims to come and read to her a bit this afternoon, or tomorrow

'She'll take it very kindly, your reverence. But while you are here, sir, there's just a word I'd like to say. I

'I do think, I do indeed, sire, that Mr Thorne's man ain't dealing fairly along of the foxes. I wouldn't say a

'Well, sire, he's a trapping on 'em. He is, indeed, your reverence. I wouldn't speak if I warn't well nigh mortal

Now the archdeacon had never been a hunting man, though in his early days many a clergyman had been in

the habit of hunting without losing his clerical character by doing so; but he had lived all his life among

gentlemen in a hunting county, and had his own very strong ideas about the trapping of foxes. Foxes first, and

pheasants afterwards, had always been the rule with him as to any land of which he himself had the

management. And no man understood better than he did how to deal with keepers as to this matter of

foxpreserving, or knew better that keepers will in truth obey not the words of their employers, but their

sympathies. 'Wish them to have foxes, and pay them, and they will have them.' Mr Sowerby of Chaldicotes

used to say, and he in his day was reckoned to be the best preserver of foxes in Barsetshire. 'Tell them to have

them, and don't wish it, and pay them well, and you won't have a fox to interfere with your game. I don't care

what a man says to me, I can read it all like a book when I see his covers drawn.' That was what poor Mr

Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and the archdeacon had heard him say it a score of time, and had learned

the lesson. But now his heart was not with the foxesand especially not with the foxes on behalf of his son

Henry. 'I can't have any meddling with Mr Thorne,' he said; 'I can't; and I won't.'

'But I don't suppose it can be Mr Thorne's order, your reverence; and Mr Henry is so particular.'

'Of course it isn't Mr Thorne's order. Mr Thorne has been a hunting man all his life.'

'Not if he knowed it, he wouldn't, your reverence. A gentleman of the likes of him, who's been a hunting over

fifty year, wouldn't do the likes of that; but the foxes is trapped, and Mr Henry'll be a putting it on me if I

don't speak out. They is Plumstead foxes, too; and a vixen was trapped just across the field yonder, in Goshall

Springs, no later than yesterday morning.' Flurry was now thoroughly in earnest; and, indeed, the trapping of

'No, your reverence; they're on the Ullathorne property. But a word from your reverence would do it. Mr

Henry thinks more of the foxes than anything. The last word he told me was that it would break his heart if he

'Then he must break his heart.' The words were pronounced, but the archdeacon had so much command over

himself as to speak them in such a voice that the man should not hear them. But it was incumbent on him to

say something that the man should hear. 'I will have no meddling in the matter, Flurry. Whether there are

foxes or whether there are not, is a matter of no great moment. I will not have a word said to annoy Mr

Thorne.' Then he rode away, back through the wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked with him

leisurely on, whither the archdeacon hardly knew for he was thinking, thinking, thinking. 'Well;if that

ain't the darn'dest thing that ever was,' said Flurry; 'but I'll tell the squire about Thorne's mandarned if I

don't.' now, 'the squire' was young Squire Gresham, the master of the East Barsetshire hounds.

But the archdeacon went on thinking, thinking, thinking. He could have heard nothing of his son to stir him

more in his favour than this strong evidence of his partiality for foxes. I do not mean it to be understood that

the archdeacon regarded foxes as better than active charity, of a contented mind, or a meek spirit, or than

selfdenying temperance. No doubt all these virtues did hold in his mind their proper places, altogether

beyond contamination of foxes. But he had prided himself on thinking that his son should be a country

gentleman, and probably nothing doubting as to the major's active charity and other virtues, was delighted to

receive evidence of those tastes which he had ever wished to encourage in his son's character. Or rather, such

evidence would have delighted him at any other time than the present. Now it only added more gall to his

cup. 'Why should he teach himself to care for such things, when he has not the spirit to enjoy them,' said the

archdeacon to himself. 'He is a foola fool. A man that has been married once, to go crazy after a little girl,

that has hardly a dress to her back, and who never was in a drawingroom in her life! Charles is the eldest,

and he shall be the eldest. It was be better to keep it together. It is the way in which the country has become

what it is.' He was out nearly all day, and did not see his wife till dinnertime. Her father, Mr Harding, was

still with them, but had breakfasted in his own room. Not a word, therefore, was said about Henry Grantly

Mrs Grantly was determined that, unless provoked, she would say nothing to him till the following morning.

He should sleep upon his wrath before she spoke to him again. And he was equally unwilling to recur to the

subject. Had she permitted, the next morning would have passed away, and no word would have been spoken.

But this would not have suited her. She had his orders to write, and she had undertaken to obey these

orderswith the delay of one day. Were she not to write at allor in writing to send no message from the

father, there would be cause for further anger. And yet this, I think, was what the archdeacon wished.

'I am not asking about that now. We hope there will be years and years to come, in which you may change

'I have nothing to say to himnothing; not a word. He knows what he has to expect from me, for I have told

him. He is acting with his eyes open, and so am I. If he married Miss Crawley, he must live on his own

means. I told him that so plainly, that he can want no further intimation.' Then Mrs Grantly knew that she was

absolved from the burden of yesterday's message, and she plumed herself on the prudence of her conduct. On

'DEAR THORNE, 'My man tells me that foxes have been trapped on Darvell's farm, just outside the

There was great dismay in Barchester Palace after the visit paid to the bishop and Mrs Proudie by that terrible

clerical offender, Mr Crawley. It will be remembered, perhaps, how he had defied the bishop with spoken

words, and how he had defied the bishop's wife by speaking words to her. For the moment, no doubt, Mr

Crawley had the best of it. Mrs Proudie acknowledged to herself that this was the case; but as she was a

woman who had never yet succumbed to an enemy, who had neverif on such an occasion I may be allowed

to use a schoolboy's slangtaken a licking from anyone, it was not likely that Mr Crawley would be allowed

to enjoy his triumph in peace. It would be odd if all the weight of the palace would not be able to silence a

wretch of a perpetual curate who had already been committed to take his trial for thieving;and Mrs Proudie

was determined that all the weight of the palace should be used. As for the bishop, though he was not as

angry as his wife, he was quite unhappy, and therefore quite as hostile to Mr Crawley; and was fully

conscious that there could be no peace for him now until Mr Crawley should be crushed. If only the assizes

would come at once, and get him condemned out of the way, what a blessed thing it would be! But unluckily

it still wanted three months to the assizes, and during those three months Mr Crawley would be at large and

subject only to the episcopal authority. During that time he could not be silenced by the arm of the civil law.

His wife was not long in expressing her opinion after Mr Crawley had left the palace. 'You must proceed

against him in the Court of Archesand that at once,' said Mrs Proudie. 'You can do that, of course? I know

that it will be expensive. Of course it will be expensive. I suppose it may cost us some three hundred pounds;

but duty is duty, my lord, and in such a case as this your duty as a bishop is paramount.'

The poor bishop knew that it was useless to explain to her the various mistakes which she madewhich she

was ever makingas to the extent of his powers and the modes of procedure which were open to him. When

he would to so she would only rail at him for being lukewarm in his office, poor in spirit, and afraid of

dealing roundly with those below him. On the present occasion he did say a word, but she would not even

hear him to the end. 'Don't tell me about rural deans, as if I didn't know. The rural dean has nothing to do with

such a case. The man has been committed for trial. Send for Mr Chadwick at once, and let steps be taken

'The I will see Mr Chadwick.' And in her anger she did sit down and write a note to Mr Chadwick, begging

Mr Chadwick was a lawyer, living in Barchester, who earned his bread from ecclesiastical business. His

father, and his uncle, and his grandfather and granduncles, had all been concerned in the affairs of the diocese

of Barchester. His uncle had been bailiff to the episcopal estates, or steward as he had been called, in Bishop

Grantly's time, and still contrived to draw his income in some shape from the property of the see. The nephew

had also been the legal assistant of the bishop in his latter days, and had been continued in that position by

Bishop Proudie, not from love, but from expediency. Mr John Chadwick was one of those gentlemen, two or

three of whom are to be seen in connexion with every seewho seem to be hybridshalflay, halfcleric.

They dress like clergymen, and affect that mixture of clerical solemnity and clerical waggishness which is

generally to be found among minor canons and vicars choral of a cathedral. They live, or at least have their

offices, half in the Close and half out of itdwelling as it were just on the borders of holy orders. They

always wear white neckhandkerchiefs and black gloves; and would be altogether clerical in their

appearance, were it not that as regards the outward man they impinge somewhat on the characteristics of the

undertaker. They savour of the church but the savour is of the church's exterior. Any stranger thrown into

chance contact with one of them would, from instinct, begin to talk about things ecclesiastical without any

reference to things theological or things religious. They are always most worthy men, much respected in the

society of the Close, and I never heard of one of them whose wife was not comfortable or whose children

Such a one was Mr John Chadwick, and as it was a portion of his duties to accompany the bishop to

consecrations and ordinations, he knew Dr Proudie very well. Having been brought up, as it were, under the

very wing of Bishop Grantly, it could not well be that he should love Bishop Grantly's successor. The old

bishop and the new bishop had been so different that no man could like, or even esteem, them both. But Mr

Chadwick was a prudent man, who knew well the source from which he earned his bread, and he had never

quarrelled with Bishop Proudie. He knew Mrs Proudie alsoof necessityand when I say of him that he

had hitherto avoided any open quarrel with her, it will I think be allowed that he was a man of prudence and

But he had sometimes been sorely tried, and he felt when he got her note that he was now about to encounter

a very sore trial. He muttered something which might have been taken for an oath, were it not that the

outwards signs of the man gave warranty that no oath could proceed from such a one. Then he wrote a short

note presenting his compliments to Mrs Proudie, and saying that he would call at the palace at eleven o'clock

But, in the meantime, Mrs Proudie, who could not be silent on the subject for a moment, did learn something

of the truth from her husband. The information did not come to her in the way of instruction, but was teased

out of the unfortunate man. 'I know that you can proceed against him in the Court of Arches, under the

'There must be an inquiry firstby his brother clergy. There must indeed. It's the only way of proceeding.'

'And if the Civil Law condemns him, and locks him up in prisonas it most certainly will do?'

'But it hasn't done so yet, my dear. I really think that as it has gone so far, it will be best to leave it as it is till

'What! Leave him there after what has occurred this morning in this palace?' The palace with Mrs Proudie

was always a palace, and never a house. 'No; no; ten thousand times no. Are you not aware that he insulted

you, and grossly, most grossly insulted me? Since I first came to this palace;never, never. And we know

the man to be a thief;we absolutely know it. Think, my lord, of the souls of his people!'

'Because you will get me into trouble. I tell you the only thing to be done is to issue a commission with the

'Why should they take three months? Why should they take more than three daysor three hours? It is all

'But it is so. If I were to take legal proceedings against him, it would costoh dearmore than a thousand

'If it costs two, you must do it,' Mrs Proudie's anger was still very hot, or she would not have spoken of an

In this manner she did not come to understand, before the arrival of Mr Chadwick, that her husband could

take no legal steps towards silencing Mr Crawley until a commission of clergymen had been appointed to

inquire into the matter, and that the commission should be headed by the rural dean within the limits of

whose rural deanery the parish of Hogglestock was situated, or by some beneficed parochial clergyman of

repute in the neighbourhood. Now the rural dean was Dr Tempest of Silverbridge who had held that

position before the coming of Dr Proudie to the diocese; and there had grown up in the bosom of Mrs Proudie

a strong feeling that undue mercy had been shown to Mr Crawley by the magistrates of Silverbridge, of

whom Dr Tempest had been one. 'These magistrates had taken bail for his appearance at the assizes, instead

of committing him to prison at onceas they were bound to do, when such an offence as that had been

committed by a clergyman. But, no;even though there was a clergymen among them, they had thought

nothing of the souls of the poor people!' In such language, Mrs Proudie had spoken of the affair at

Silverbridge, and having once committed herself to such an opinion, of course she thought that Dr Tempest

would go through fire and water and would omit no stretch of what little judicial power might be committed

to his handswith the view of opposing his bishop, and maintaining the culprit in is position. 'In such a case

as this, can not you name an acting rural dean yourself? Dr Tempest, you know, is very old.' 'No, my dear;

no; I cannot.' 'You can ask Mr Chadwick, at any rate, and then you could name Mr Thumble.' 'But Mr

Thumble doesn't even hold a living in the diocese. Oh, dear; oh, dear; oh, dear!' And so the matter rested till

Mrs Proudie had no doubt intended to have Mr Chadwick all to herselfat any rate so as to encounter him in

the first instance. But having been at length convinced that the inquiry by the rural dean was really necessary

as a preliminary, and having also slept upon the question of expenditure, she gave direction that the lawyer

should be shown into the bishop's study, and she took care to be absent at the moment of his arrival. Of

course she did not intend that Mr Chadwick should leave the palace without having heard what she had to

say, but she thought that it would be well that he should be made to conceive that though the summons had

been written by her, it had really been intended on the part of the bishop. 'Mr Chadwick will be with you at

eleven, bishop,' she said, as she got up from the breakfasttable, at which she left his lordship with two of his

daughters and with a married soninlaw, a clergyman who was staying in the house. 'Very well, my dear,'

said the bishop, with a smilefor he was anxious not to betray any vexation at his wife's interference before

his daughters or the Rev Mr Tickler. But he understood it all. Mr Chadwick had been sent for with reference

to Mr Crawley, and he was drivenabsolutely driven, to propose to his lawyer that this commission of

Punctually at eleven Mr Chadwick came, wearing a very long face as he entered the palace doorfor he felt

that he would in all probability be now compelled to quarrel with Mrs Proudie. Much he could bear, but there

was a limit to his endurance. She had never absolutely sent for him before, though she had often interfered

with him. 'I shall have to tell her a bit of my mind,' he said, as he stepped across the Close, habited in his best

suit of black, with most exact white cravat, and yet looking not quite like a clergymanwith some touch of

the undertaker in his gait. When he found that he was shown into the bishop's room, and that the bishop was

therethe bishop onlyhis mind was relieved. It would have been better that the bishop should have

written himself, or that the chaplain should have written in his lordship's name; that, however, was a trifle.

But the bishop did not know what to say to him. If he intended to direct an inquiry to be made by the rural

dean, it would be by no means becoming that he should consult Mr Chadwick as to doing so. It might be

well, or if not well at any rate not improper, that he should make application to Dr Tempest through Mr

Chadwick; but in that case he must give the order at once, and he still wished to avoid it if it were possible.

Since he had been in the diocese no case so grave as this had been pushed upon him. The intervention of the

rural dean in an ordinary way he had usedhad been made to usemore than once, by his wife. A vicar had

been absent a little too long from one parish, and there had been rumours about brandyandwater in

another. Once he had been very nearly in deep water because Mrs Proudie had taken it in dudgeon that a

certain young rector, who had been left a widower, had a pretty governess for his children; and there had been

that case, sadly notorious in the diocese at the time, of our excellent friend Mr Robarts of Framley, when the

bailiffs were in the house because he couldn't pay his debtsor rather, the debts of his friend for whom he

had signed bills. But in all these cases some good fortune had intervened, and he had been saved from the

terrible necessity of any ulterior process. But nownow he was being driven beyond himself, and all to no

purpose. If Mrs Proudie would only wait three months the civil law would do it all for him. But here was Mr

Chadwick in the room, and he knew that it would be useless for him to attempt to talk to Mr Chadwich about

other matters, and so dismiss him. The wife of his bosom would be down upon them before Chadwick could

'Hmha. How d'ye do, Mr Chadwickwon't you sit down?' Mr Chadwick thanked his lordship, and sat

'Won't you come near the fire?' The bishop knew that Mrs Proudie was on the road, and had an eye to the

proper strategical position of his forces. Mrs Proudie would certainly take up her position in a certain chair

from whence the light enabled her to rake her husband thoroughly. What advantage she might have from this

he could not prevent;but he could so place Mr Chadwick, that the lawyer should be more than within reach

of his eye than that of his wife. So the bishop pointed to an armchair opposite to himself and near the fire,

'Very said indeed,' said the lawyer. 'I never pitied a man so much in my life, my lord.'

This was not exactly the line which the bishop was desirous of taking. 'Of course he is to be pitied;of

course he is. But from all I hear, Mr Chadwick, I am afraidI am afraid we must not acquit him.'

'But, you see, Mr Chadwick, regarding him as a beneficed clergymanwith a cure of soulsthe question is

whether I should be justified in leaving him where he is till his trial shall come on.'

'I know there is a difficulty. I know that. But I am inclined to think that in the interests of the parish I am

'I believer your lordship has attempted to silence him, and that he has refused to comply.'

'I thought it better for everybody's sakeespecially for his own, that he should for a while be relieved from

his duties; but he is an obstinate man, a very obstinate man. I made the attempt with all consideration for his

'He is hard put to it, my lord. I know the man and his pride. The dean has spoken of him to me more than

once, and nobody knows him so well as the dean. If I might venture to offer an opinion'

'Good morning, Mr Chadwick,' said Mrs Proudie, coming into the room and taking her accustomed seat. 'No

thank you, no; I will stay away from the fire, if you please. His lordship has spoken to you no doubt about

'Something must of course be done to put a stop to the crying disgrace of having such a man preaching from a

pulpit in this diocese. When I think of the souls of the people in that poor village, my hair literally stands on

'That is the worst of it,' said the bishop. 'It would have been so much better for himself if he would have

'I could have told you that, my lord, that he would not do that, from what I knew of him,' said Mr Chadwick.

'I can issue a commission, you know, to the rural dean,' said the bishop mildly.

'Yes, you can do that. And Dr Tempest in two months' time will have named his assessors'

'It is customary to leave that to the rural dean,' said Mr Chadwick. 'The bishop no doubt can object to anyone

'And can specially select any clergyman he pleases from the archdeaconry,' said the bishop. 'I have known it

'The rural dean in such a case has probably been an old man, and not active,' said the lawyer.

'And Dr Tempest is a very old man,' said Mrs Proudie, 'and in such a matter not at all trustworthy. He was

'His lordship could hardly set him aside,' said the lawyer. 'At any rate I would not recommend him to try. I

think you might suggest a commission of five, and propose two of the number yourself. I do not think that in

At last it was settled in this way. Mr Chadwick was to prepare a letter to Dr Tempest, for the bishop's

signature, in which the doctor should be requested, as the rural dean to whom Mr Crawley was subject, to

hold a commission of five to inquire into Mr Crawley's conduct. The letter was to explain to Dr Tempest that

the bishop, moved by his solicitude for the souls of the people of Hogglestock, had endeavoured, 'in a

friendly way,' to induce Mr Crawley to desist from his ministrations; but that having failed through Mr

Crawley's obstinacy, he had no alternative but to proceed in this way. 'You had better say that his lordship, as

bishop of the diocese, can take no heed of the coming trial,' said Mrs Proudie. 'I think his lordship had better

say nothing at all about the trial,' said Mr Chadwick. 'I think it will be best,' said the bishop.

'But if they report against him,' said Mr Chadwick, 'you can only then proceed in the ecclesiastical courtat

'I'm afraid you don't know him, my lord,' said the lawyer. The bishop, thinking of the scene which had taken

place in that very room only yesterday, felt that he did know Mr Crawley, and felt also that the hope which he

had just expressed was one in which he himself put no trust. But something might turn up; and it was

devoutly to be hoped that Dr Tempest would take a long time over his inquiry. The assizes might come on as

soon as it was terminated, or very shortly afterwards; and then everything might be well. 'You won't find Dr

Tempest very ready at it,' said Mr Chadwick. The bishop in his heart was comforted by the words. 'But he

must be made to be ready to do his duty,' said Mrs Proudie, imperiously. Mr Chadwick shrugged his

shoulders, then got up, spoke his farewell little speeches, and left the palace.

John Eames saw nothing more of Lily Dale till he packed up his portmanteau, left his mother's house, and

went to stay for a few days with his old friend Lady Julia; and this did not happen till he had been above a

week at Guestwick. Mrs Dale repeatedly said that it was odd that Johnny Eames did not come to see them;

and Grace, speaking of him to Lily, asked why he did not come. Lily, in her funny way, declared that he

would come soon enough. But even while she was joking there was something of halfexpressed

consciousness in her wordsas though she felt it to be foolish to speak of his coming as she might of that of

any other young man, before people who knew her whole story. 'He'll come quick enough. He knows, and I

know, that his coming will do no good. Of course I shall be glad to see him. Why shouldn't I be glad to see

him? I've known him and liked him all my life. I liked him when there did not seem to be much about him to

like, and now that he is clever, and agreeable, and goodlookingwhich he never was as a ladwhy

shouldn't I go on liking him? He's more like a brother to me than anybody else I've got. James,'James was

her brotherinlaw, Dr Crofts'thinks of nothing but his patients and his babies, and my cousin Bernard is

much too grand a person for me to take the liberty of loving him. I shall be very glad to see Johnny Eames.'

From all which Mrs Dale was led to believe that Johnny's case was still hopeless. And how should it not be

hopeless? Had not Lily confessed within the last week or two that she still loved Adolphus Crosbie?

Mrs Eames also, and Mary, were surprised that John did not go over to Allington. 'You haven't seen Mrs Dale

'Yes;no doubt. But it seems strange that you should be here so long without going to them.'

'There's time enough,' said he. 'I shall have nothing else to do when I'm at the cottage.' Then, when Mary had

spoken to him again in private, expressing a hope that there was 'nothing wrong', he had been very angry with

his sister. 'What do you mean by wrong? What rubbish you girls talk! And you never have any delicacy of

'But I do say them. You'll make me swear among you some day that I will never see Lily Dale again. As it is,

I wish I never had seen hersimple because I am so dunned about it.' In all of which I think that Johnny was

manifestly wrong. When the humour was on him he was fond enough of talking about Lily Dale. Had he not

taught her to do so, I doubt whether his sister would ever have mentioned Lily's name to him. 'I did not mean

But at last he went to Lady Julia's, and was no sooner there than he was ready to start for Allington. When

Lady Julia spoke to him about Lily, he did not venture to snub her. Indeed, of all his friends, Lady Julia was

the one whom on this subject he allowed himself the most unrestricted confidence. He came over one day,

just before dinner, and declared his intention of walking over to Allington immediately after breakfast on the

'And so I mean it! What's the good of a man flittering away his life? What's the good of wishing for what you

'That was all very well for an old patriarch who had seven or eight hundred years to live.'

'He lived long enough, and slowly enough, to be able to wait fourteen years;and then he had something to

comfort him in the meantime. And after all, Lady Julia, it's more than seven years since I first thought Lily

'I'll be patient for tomorrow, Lady Julia, but never again. Not that I mean to quarrel with her. I'm not such a

fool as to quarrel with a girl because she can't like me. I know how it all is. If that scoundrel had not come

across my path just when he didin that very nick of time, all might have been right betwixt her and me. I

couldn't have offered to marry her before, when I hadn't as much income as would have found her

breadandbutter. And then, just as better times came to me, he stepped in! I wonder whether it will be

'You and I are different, Lady Julia. I was angry with him for stepping in; but I couldn't show it. Then he

stepped out, and I did manage to show it. And now I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't step in again. After all,

why should he have such a power? It was simply the nick of time which gave it to him.' That John Eames

should be able to find some consolation in this consideration is devoutly to be hoped by us all.

There was nothing said about Lily Dale the next morning at breakfast. Lady Julia observed that John was

dressed a little more neatly than usual;though the change was not such as to have called for her special

'No, sir, nothing; though I should like to make you carry a pair of panniers, if I could.'

'They would become me well,' said Johnny, 'for I am going on an ass's errand.' Then, without waiting for the

word of affection which was on the old woman's lips, he got himself out of the room, and started on his

The walk was only three miles and the weather was dry and frosty, and he had come to the turn leading up to

the church and the squire's house almost before he remembered that he was near Allington. Here he paused

for a moment to think. If he continued his way down by the 'Red Lion' and through Allington Street, he must

knock at Mrs Dale's door, and ask for admission by means of the servantas would be done by any ordinary

visitor. But he could make his way on to the lawn by going up beyond the wall of the churchyard and through

the squire's garden. He knew the path wellvery well; and he thought that he might take so much liberty as

that, both with the squire and with Mrs Dale, although his visits to Allington were not so frequent now as

they used to be in the days of his boyhood. He did not wish to be admitted by the servant, and therefore he

went through the gardens. Luckily he did not see the squire, who would have detained him, and he escaped

from Hopkins, the old gardener, with little more than a word. 'I'm going down to see the ladies, Hopkins; I

suppose I shall find them?' And then, while Hopkins was arranging his spade so that he might lean upon it for

a little chat, Johnny was gone and had made his way into the other garden. He had thought it possible that he

might meet Lily out among the walks by herself and such a meeting as this would have suited him better than

any other. And as he crossed the little bridge which separated the gardens he thought of more than one such

meetingof one especial occasion on which he had first ventured to tell her in plain words that he loved her.

But before that day Crosbie had come there, and at the moment in which he was speaking of his love she

regarded Crosbie as an angel of light upon the earth. What hope could there have been for him then? What

use was there in telling such a tale of love at that time? When he told it, he knew Crosbie had been before

him. He knew that Crosbie was at that moment the angel of light. But as he had never before been able to

speak of his love, so was he then unable not to speak of it. He had spoken, and of course had been simply

rebuked. Since that day Crosbie had ceased to be an angel of light, and he, John Eames, had spoken often.

He went through the garden and over the lawn belonging to the Small House and saw no one. He forgot, I

think, that ladies do not come out to pick roses when the ground is frozen, and that croquet is not often in

progress with the hourfrost on the grass. So he walked up to the little terrace before the drawingroom, and

looking in saw Mrs Dale, and Lily, and Grace at their morning work. Lily was drawing, and Mrs Dale was

writing, and Grace had her needle in her hand. As it happened, no one at first perceived him, and he had time

to feel that after all he would have managed it better if he had been announced in the usual way. As, however,

it was now necessary that he should announce himself, he knocked at the window, and they all immediately

looked up and saw him. 'It's my cousin John,' said Grace. 'Oh, Johnny, how are you at last?' said Mrs Dale.

But it was Lily who, without speaking, opened the window for him, who was the first to give him her hand,

'It's a great shame my coming in this way,' said John, 'and letting all the cold air in upon you.'

'We shall survive it,' said Mrs Dale. 'I suppose you have just come down from my brotherinlaw?'

'No; I have not seen the squire as yet. I will do so before I go back, of course. But it seemed such a

'We are very glad to see you, by whatever way you came;are we not, mamma?' said Lily.

'I'm not so sure of that. We were only saying yesterday that as you had been in the country a fortnight without

And so they went on, chatting of old times and of mutual friends very comfortably for full an hour. And there

was some serious conversation about Grace's father and his affairs, and John declared his opinion that Mr

Crawley should go to his uncle, Thomas Toogood, not at all knowing that at that time Mr Crawley himself

had come to the same opinion. And John gave them an elaborate description of Sir Raffle Buffle, standing up

with his back to the fire with his hat on his head, and speaking with a loud harsh voice, to show them the way

in which he declared that that gentleman received his inferiors; and then bowing and scraping and rubbing his

hands together and simpering with wouldbe softnessdeclared that after that fashion Sir Raffle received

his superiors. And they were very merryso that no one would have thought that Johnny was a despondent

lover, now bent on throwing the dice for his last stake; or that Lily was aware that she was in the presence of

one lover, and that she was like to fall on the ground between two stoolshaving two lovers, neither of

'How can you consent to serve him if he's such a man as that?' said Lily, speaking of Sir Raffle.

'I do not serve him. I serve the Queenor rather the public. I don't take his wages, and he does not play his

tricks with me. He knows that he can't. He has tried it, and failed. And he only keeps where I am because I've

had some money left me. He thinks it fine to have a private secretary with a fortune. I know that he tells

people all manner of lies about it, making it out to be five times as much as it is. Dear old Huffle Snuffle. He

is such an ass; and yet he's had wit enough to get to the top of the tree, and to keep himself there. He began

the world without a penny. Now he has got a handle to his name, and he'll live in clover all his life. It's very

'When men get so high as that, there's no knowing whether they work or whether they don't. There isn't much

left for them to do, as far as I can see. They have to look beautiful, and frighten the young ones.'

'After a fashion he does. There is something imposing about such a man till you're used to it, and can see

through it. Of course it's all padding. There are men who work, no doubt. But among the bigwigs, and

bishops and cabinet ministers, I fancy that the looking beautiful is the chief part of it. Dear me, you don't

But it was luncheon time, and not only had he not as yet said a word of all that which he had come to say, but

had not as yet made any move towards getting it said. How was he to arrange that Lily should be left alone

with him? Lady Julia had said that she should not expect him back till dinnertime, and he had answered her

lackadaisically, 'I don't suppose I shall be there above ten minutes. The minutes will say all I've got to say,

and do all I've got to do. And then I suppose I shall go and cut names about bridgeseh, Lady Julia?' Lady

Julia understood the words; for once, upon a former occasion, she had found him cutting Lily's name on the

rail of a wooden bridge in her brother's grounds. But he had now been a couple of hours at the Small House,

'You might go up with him to your uncle,' said Mrs Dale. 'Indeed, I promised to go up there myself, and so

did you, Grace, to see the microscope. I heard Mr Dale give orders that one of those longlegged reptiles

Mrs Dale's little scheme for bringing the two together was very transparent, but it was not the less wise on

that account. Schemes will often be successful, let them be ever so transparent. Little intrigues become

necessary, not to conquer unwilling people, but people who are willing enough, who, nevertheless, cannot

Lily said nothing at the moment, either about the longlegged creature or the walk. That which must be, must

be. She knew well why John Eames had come there. She knew that the visits to his mother and to Lady Julia

would never have been made, but that he might have this interview. And he had a right to demand, at any

rate, as much as that. That which must be, must be. And therefore when both Mrs Dale and Grace stoutly

maintained their purpose of going up to the squire, Lily neither attempted to persuade John to accompany

'I will convoy you home myself,' she said, 'and Grace, when she has done with the beetle, shall come and

'We are not helpless young ladies in these parts, nor yet timorous,' continued Lily. 'We can walk about

without being afraid of ghosts, robbers, wild bulls, young men, or gypsies. Come the field path, Grace. I will

go as far as the big oak with him, and then I shall turn back, and I shall come in by the stile opposite the

'No, he won't. He will do nothing of the kind. He'll have to go on and open Lady Julia's bottle of port wine for

All this was very good on Lily's part, and very good also on the part of Mrs Dale; and John was of course

very much obliged to them. But there was a lack of romance in it all, which did not seem to him to argue well

as to his success. He did not think much about it, but he felt that Lily would not have been so ready to arrange

their walk had she intended to yield to his entreaty. No doubt in these latter days plain good sense had

become the prevailing mark of her characterperhaps, as Johnny thought, a little too strongly prevailing; but

even with all her plain good sense and determination to dispense with the absurdities of romance in the affairs

of her life, she would not have proposed herself as his companion for a walk across the fields merely that she

might have an opportunity of accepting his hand. He did not say all this to himself, but he instinctively felt

that it was so. And he felt also that it should have been his duty to arrange the walk, or the proper opportunity

for the scene that was to come. She had done it insteadshe and her mother between them, thereby forcing

upon him a painful conviction that he himself had not been equal to the occasion. 'I always make a mull of it,'

They went down together through the garden, and parted where the paths led away, one to the great house

and the other towards the church. 'I'll certainly come and call upon the squire before I go back to London,'

We'll tell him so,' said Mrs Dale. 'He would be sure to hear that you had been with us, even if we said nothing

'Of course he would,' said Lily; 'Hopkins has seen him.' Then they separated, and Lily and John Eames were

Hardly a word was said, perhaps not a word, till they had crossed the road and got into the field opposite to

the church. And in this first field there was more than one path, and the children of the village were often

there, and it had about it something of a public nature. John Eames felt that it was by no means a fitting field

to say that which he had to say. In crossing it, therefore, he merely remarked that the day was very fine for

walking. Then he added one special word, 'And it is so good of you, Lily, to come with me.'

'I am very glad to come with you. I would do more than that, John, to show how glad I am to see you.' Then

they had come to the second little gate, and beyond that the fields were really fields, and there were stiles

'And so I amvery glad. Only you would take it as meaning what it does not mean, I would tell you, that of

all my friends living away from the reach of my daily life, you are the one whose coming is ever the most

'It was, I think, only yesterday that I was telling Grace that you are more like a brother to me than anyone

else. I wish it might be so. I which we might swear to be brother and sister. I'd do more for you then than

walk across the fields with you to Guestwick Cottage. Your prosperity would then be the thing in the world

'Can it not? I think it can. Perhaps not this year, or next year; perhaps not in the next five years. But I make

myself happy with thinking that it may be so some day. I shall wait for it patiently, very patiently, even

'Not maliciously, or injuriously, or offensively. I will be very patient and take little rebuffs without

complaining. This is the worst of it all. When Grace and I are together we can never manage it without

'Let me help you always,' he said, keeping her hands in his after he had aided her to jump from the stile to the

'It is nonsense as coming from you to me. Lily, I sometimes think that I am persecuting you, writing to you,

coming after you, as I am doing nowtelling the same whining storyasking, asking, and asking for that

which you say you will never give me. And then I feel ashamed of myself, and swear that I will do it no

'And then,' he continued, without minding her words, 'at other times I feel that it must be my own fault; that if

I only persevered with sufficient energy, I must be successful. At such times I swear I will never give it up.'

'Leave me to be the judge of that, dear. When a man has taken a month, or perhaps only a week, or perhaps

not more than halfanhour, to make up his mind, it may be very well to tell him that he doesn't know what

he is about. I've been in the office now for over seven years, and the first day I went I put an oath into a book

that I would come back and get you for my wife when I had got enough to live upon.'

'Yes. I can show it to you. I used to come and hover about the place in the old days, before I went up to

London, when I was such a fool that I couldn't speak to you if I met you. I am speaking of a time long

'I must speak of him. A man isn't to hold his tongue when everything he has in the world is at stake. I suppose

'I am not going to abuse him. You can judge of him by his deeds. I cannot say anything worse of him than

what they say. I suppose he loved you; but he certainly did not love you as I have done. I have at any rate

been true to you. Yes, Lily, I have been true to you. I am true to you. He did not know what he was about. I

do. I am justified in saying that I do. I want you to be my wife. It is no use your talking about it as though I

'Is not a man to have any reward? Of course if you had married him there would have been an end of it. He

had come in between me and my happiness, and I must have borne it, as other men bear such sorrows. But

you have not married him; and, of course, I cannot but feel that I may yet have a chance. Lily, answer me

this. Do you believe that I love you?' But she did not answer him. 'You can at any rate tell me that. Do you

'And do you believe that I love you with all my heart and all my strength and all my soul?'

'Think! What am I to say or to do to make you understand that my only idea of happiness is the idea that

sooner or later I may get you to be my wife? Lily, will you say that it shall be so? Speak, Lily. There is no

one that will not be glad. Your uncle will consenthas consented. Your mother wishes it. Bell wishes it. My

mother wishes it. Lady Julia wishes it. You would be doing what everybody around you wants you to do.

And why should you not do it? It isn't that you dislike me. You wouldn't talk about being my sister, if you

'Then why will you not be my wife? Oh, Lily, say the word now, here, at once. Say the word, and you'll make

me the happiest fellow in all England.' As he spoke he took her by both arms, and held her fast. She did not

struggle to get away from him, but stood quite still, looking into his face, while the first sparkle of a salt tear

formed itself in each eye. 'Lily, one little word will do ithalf a word, a nod, a smile. Just touch my arm

with your hand and I will take it for a yes.' I think that she almost tried to touch him; that the word was in her

throat, and that she almost strove to speak it. But there was no syllable spoken, and her fingers did not loose

'I wish I could,' she whispered;but the whisper was so hoarse that he hardly recognized the voice.

'And why can you not? What is there to hinder you? There is nothing to hinder you, Lily.'

'I will tell you. You are so good and so true, and so excellent such a dear, dear friend, that I will tell you

everything, so that you may read my heart. I will tell you as I tell mammayou and her and no one

else;for you are the choice friend of my heart. I cannot be your wife because of the love I bear for another

'Of course it is he. I think, Johnny, you and I are alike in this, that when we have loved, we cannot bring

ourselves to change. You will not change, though it would be so much better you should do so.'

'Nor can I. When I sleep I dream of him. When I am alone I cannot banish him from my thoughts. I cannot

define what it is to love him. I want nothing from himnothing, nothing. But I move about through my little

world thinking of him, and I shall do so till the end. I used to feel proud of my love, though it made me so

wretched that I thought it would kill me. I am not proud of it any longer. It is a foolish poorspirited

weaknessas though my heart has been only half formed in the making. Do you be stronger, John. A man

'Nor have I. What can we do but pity each other, and swear that we will be friendsdear friends. There is the

oaktree and I have got to turn back. We have said everything that we can sayunless you will tell me that

He paused, holding her by the hand and thinking of another question which he longed to put to

herconsidering whether he would ask her that question or not. He hardly knew whether he were entitled to

ask it;whether or no the asking of it would be ungenerous. She had said that she would tell him

everythingas she had told everything to her mother. 'Of course,' he said, 'I have no right to expect to know

'You may know them allas far as I know them myself. I have said that you should read my heart.'

'If he were to come again he would come in vain, John.' She did not say that he had come again. She could

She stood and thought for a while before she answered him. 'No, I should not marry him now. I think not.'

Then she paused again. 'Nay, I am sure I would not. After what has passed, I could not trust myself to do it.

'But I insist. I will not marry Mr Crosbie. But you must not misunderstand me, John. There;all that is over

for me now. All those dreams about love, and marriage, and of a house of my own, and childrenand a cross

husband, and a weddingring growing always tighter as I grow fat and older. I have dreamed of such things

as other girls domore perhaps than other girls, more than I should have done. And now I accept the thing

as finished. You wrote something in your book, you dear Johnsomething that could not be made to come

true. Dear John, I wish for your sake it was otherwise. I will go home and I will write in my book, this very

day, Lily Dale, Old Maid. If ever I make that false, do you come and ask me for the page.'

'I will write it, and it shall never be torn out. You I cannot marry. Him I will not marry. You may believe me,

'Yes;that is to be the end of it. Not the end of our friendship. Old maids have friends.'

'Do not suppose that I will trouble you againat any rate not for a while. In five years perhaps'

'Now, Johnny, you are laughing at me. And of course it is the best way. If there is not Grace, and she has

caught me before I have turned back. Goodbye, dear John. God bless you. I think you the finest fellow in

the world. I do, and do does mamma. Remember always that there is a temple at Allington in which your

worship is never forgotten.' Then she pressed his hand and turned away from him to meet Grace Crawley.

'That cousin of yours,' said Lily, 'is simply the dearest, warmesthearted, finest creature that ever was seen in

'But have you told this finest, warmest, dearest creature that he shall be rewarded with the prize he covets?'

'No, Grace. I have told him nothing of the kind. I think he understands it all now. If he does not, it is not for

the want of my telling him. I don't suppose any lady was ever more openspoken to a gentleman that I have

'You see, my dear,' said Lily, 'you allow yourself, for the sake of your argument, to use a word in a double

sense, and you attempt to confound me by doing so. But I am a great deal too clever for you, and have

thought too much about it, to be taken in in that way. I certainly love your cousin John; and so do I love Mr

'True; very much better; but it is of the same sort of love. However, it is a great deal too deep for you to

understand. You're too young, and I shan't try to explain it. But the long and the short of it isI am not going

John Eames as he returned to the cottage was by no means able to fall back upon those resolutions as to his

future life, which he had formed for himself and communicated to his friend Dalrymple, and which he had

intended to bring at once into force in the event of his being rejected by Lily Dale. 'I will cleanse my mind of

it altogether,' he had said, 'and though I may not forget her, I will live as though she were forgotten. If she

declines my proposal again, I will accept her word as final. I will not go about the world any longer as a

stricken deerto be pitied or else bullied by the rest of the herd.' On his way down to Guestwick he had

sworn twenty times that it should be so. He would make one more effort, and then he would give it up. But

now, after his interview with Lily, he was as little disposed to give it up as ever.

He sat upon a gate in a paddock through which there was a back entrance into Lady Julia's garden, and there

swore a thousand oaths that he would never give her up. He was, at any rate, sure that she would never

become the wife of anyone else. He was equally sure that he would never become the husband of any other

wife. He could trust her. Yes; he was sure of that. But could he trust himself? Communing with himself, he

told himself that after all he was but a poor creature. Circumstances had been very good to him, but he had

done nothing for himself. He was vain, and foolish, and unsteady. So he told himself while sitting upon the

gate. But he had, at any rate, been constant to Lily, and constant he would remain.

He would never more mention her name to anyoneunless it were to Lady Julia tonight. To Dalrymple he

would not open his mouth about her, but would plainly ask his friend to be silent on that subject if her name

should be mentioned by him. But morning and evening he would pray for her, and in his prayers he would

always think of her as his wife. He would never speak to another girl without remembering that he was bound

to Lily. He would go nowhere into society without recalling to mind the fact that he was bound by the chains

And then he considered in what manner it would be best and most becoming that he should still prosecute his

endeavour and repeat his offer. He thought that he would write to her every year, on the same day of the year,

year after year, it might be for the next twenty years. And his letters would be very simple. Sitting there on

the gate he planned the wording of his letters; of his first letter, and of his second, and of his third. They

should be very like to each othershould hardly be more than a repetition of the same words. 'If now you are

ready for me, then Lily, am I, as ever, still ready for you.' And then, 'if now' again and again, 'if now;and

still 'if now'. When his hair should be grey, and the wrinkles on his cheeksay, though they should be on

hers, he would still continue to tell her from year to year that he was ready to take her. Surely some day that

'if now' would prevail. And should it never prevail, the merit of his constancy should be its own reward.

Such letters as those she would surely keep. Then he looked forward, down into the valley of coming years,

and fancied her as she might sit reading them in the twilight of some long eveningletters which had been

written all in vain. He thought that he could look forward with some satisfaction towards the close of his own

career, in having been the hero of such a lovestory. At any rate, if such a story were to be his story, the

melancholy attached to it should arise from no fault of his own. He would still press her to be his wife. And

then as he remembered that he was only twentyseven and that she was twentyfour, he began to marvel at

the feeling of grey old age which had come upon him, and tried to make himself believe that he would have

He went into the cottage and made his way at once into the room in which Lady Julia was sitting. She did not

speak at first, but looked anxiously about his face. And he did not speak, but turned to a table near the

window and took up a bookthough the room was too dark for him to see to read the words. 'John,' at last

'Nothing on earthexcept the same old story, which has now become a matter of course.'

'Lady Julia, she has said no; simply no. It is a very easy word to say, and she has said it so often that it seems

to come from her quite naturally.' Then he got a candle and sat down over the fire with a volume of a novel. It

was not yet past five, and Lady Julia did not go upstairs to dress till six, and therefore there was an hour

during which they were together. John had at first been rather grand to his old friend, and very

uncommunicative. But before the dressingbell had rung he had been coaxed into a confidential strain and

had told everything. 'I suppose it is wrong and selfish,' he said. 'I suppose I am a dog in a manger. But I do

own that there is a consolation to me in the assurance that she will never be the wife of that scoundrel.'

'I could never forgive him. But she has said that she will not, and I know that she will not forswear herself. I

shall go on with it, Lady Julia. I have made up my mind to that. I suppose it will never come to anything, but

I shall stick to it. I can live an old bachelor as well as another man. At any rate I shall stick to it.' Then the

good silly old woman comforted him and applauded him as though he were a hero among men, and did

reward him, as Lily had predicted, by one of those now rare bottles of superexcellent port which had come

John Eames stayed out his time at the cottage, and went over more than once again to Allington, and called

on the squire, on one occasion dining with him and meeting the three ladies from the Small House; and he

walked with the girls, comporting himself like any ordinary man. But he was not again alone with Lily Dale,

nor did he learn whether she had in truth written those two words in her book. But the reader may be know

that she did write them there on the evening of the day on which the promise was made. 'Lilian DaleOld

And when John's holiday was over, he returned to his duties at the elbow of Sir Raffle Buffle.

About this time Grace Crawley received two letters, the first of them reaching her while John Eames was still

at the cottage, and the other immediately after his return to London. They both help to tell our story, and our

reader shall, therefore, read them if he so pleaseor, rather, he shall read the first and as much of the second

as is necessary for him. Grace's answer to the first letter he shall see also. Her answer to the second will be

told in a very few words. The first was from Major Grantly, and the task of answering that was by no means

'I told you when I parted from you, that I should write to you, and I think it best to do so at once, in order that

you may fully understand me. Spoken words are soon forgotten,''I shall never forget his words,' Grace had

said to herself as she read this;'and are not always as plain as they might be. Dear Grace, I suppose I ought

not to say so, but I fancied when I parted from you at Allington, that I had succeeded in making myself dear

to you. I believe you to be so true in spirit, that you were unable to conceal from me the fact that you love me.

I shall believe that it is so, till I am deliberately and solemnly assured by yourself that it is not so;and I

conjure you to think what is due both to yourself and to myself, before you allow yourself to think of making

'I have already told my friends that I have asked you to be my wife. I tell you this, in order that you may

know how little effect your answer to me has had towards inducing me to give you up. What you said about

your father and your family has no weight with me, and ought ultimately to have none with you. This

business of your father's great misfortuneso great, that probably, had we not known each other before it

happened, it might have prevented our becoming intimate when we chanced to meet. But we had met before

it happened, and before it happened I had determined to ask you to be my wife. What should I have to think

'I have only further to say that I love you better than anyone in the world, and that it is my best hope that you

will be my wife. I will not press you further till this affair of your father's has been settled; but when that is

over, I shall look for my reward without reference to its result. Not that I doubt the result if there be anything

like justice in England; but that your debt to me, if you owe me any debt, will be altogether irrespective of

that. If, as I suppose, you will remain at Allington for some time longer, I shall not see you till after the trial

is over. As soon as that is done, I will come to you wherever you are. In the meantime I shall look for an

answer to this; and if it be true that you love me, dear, dear Grace, pray have the courage to tell me

When the letter was given to Grace across the breakfasttable, both Mrs Dale and Lily suspected that it came

from Major Grantly, but not a word was spoken about it. When Grace with hesitating hand broke the

envelope, neither of her friends looked at her. Lily had a letter of her own, and Mrs Dale opened the

newspaper. But still it was impossible not to perceive that her face became red with blushes, and then they

knew that the letter must be from Major Grantly. Grace herself could not read it, though her eye ran down

over the two pages catching a word here and there. She had looked at the name at once, and had seen the

manner of his signature. 'Most affectionately your own'! What was she to say to him? Twice, thrice, as she sat

at the breakfasttable she turned the page of the letter, and at each turning she read the signature. And she

read the beginning, 'Dearest Grace'. More than that she did not really read till she had got the letter away with

Not a word was said about the letter at breakfast. Poor Grace went on eating or pretending to eat, but could

not bring herself to utter a word. Mrs Dale and Lily spoke of various matters, which were quite indifferent to

them; but even with them the conversation was so difficult that Grace felt it to be forced, and was conscious

that they were thinking about her and her lover. As soon as she could make an excuse she left the room, and

'NothingI should say. Let him fight his own battle. If we interfere, we may probably only make her more

'For a time she will, I daresay. And it will be the best that she should. He himself will respect her for it

afterwards.' Thus it was agreed between them that they should say nothing to Grace about the letter unless

Grace read her letter over and over again. It was the first loveletter she had ever had;the first letter she

had ever received from any man except her father and brotherthe first, almost, that had ever been written to

her by any other than her own special friends. The words of it were very strange to her ear. He had told her

when he left her that he would write to her, and therefore she had looked forward to the event which had now

come; but she had thought that it would be much more distant and she had tried to make herself believe

that when it did come it would be very different from this letter which she now possessed. 'He will tell me

that he has altered his mind. He ought to do so. It is not proper that he should still think of me when we are in

such disgrace.' But now the letter had come, and she acknowledged the truth of his saying that written words

were clearer in their expression than those simply spoken. 'Not that I could ever forget a syllable that he said.'

Yet, as she held the letter in her hand she felt that it was a possession. It was a thing at which she could look

in coming years, when he and she might be far aparta thing at which she could look with pride in

Neither on that day nor on the next did she think of her answer, nor on the third or fourth day with any steady

thinking. She knew that an answer would have to be written, and she felt that the sooner it was written the

easier might be the writing; but she felt also that it should not be written too quickly. A week should first

elapse, she thought, and therefore a week was allowed to elapse, and then the day for writing her answer

came. She had spoken no word about it either to Mrs Dale or to Lily. She had longed to do so, but had feared.

Even though she should speak to Lily she could not be led by Lily's advice. Her letter, whatever it might be,

must be her own letter. She would admit of no dictation. She must say her own say, let her say it ever so

badly. As to the manner of saying it, Lily's aid would have been invaluable; but she feared that she could not

secure that aid without compromising her own power of actionher own individuality; and therefore she

On a certain morning she fixed herself at her desk to write her letter. She had known that the task would be

difficult, but she had little known how difficult it would be. On that day of her first attempt she did not get it

written at all. Now was she to begin? He had called her 'Dearest Grace'; and this mode of beginning seemed

as easy as it was sweet. 'It is very easy for a gentleman,' she said to herself, 'because he may say just what he

pleases.' She wrote the words 'Dearest Henry,' on a scrap of paper, and immediately into fragments as though

she was ashamed of having written them. She knew that she would not dare to send away a letter beginning

with such words. She would not even have dared to let such words in her own handwriting remain within the

recesses of her own little desk. 'Dear Major Grantly,' she began at length. It seemed to her to be very ugly, but

after much consideration she believed it to be correct. On the second day the letter was written as follows:

'I do not know how I ought to answer your kind letter, but I must tell you that I am very much flattered by

your great goodness to me. I cannot understand why you should think so much of me, but I suppose it is

because you have felt for my misfortunes. I will not say anything about what might have happened, if it had

not been for papa's sorrow and disgrace; and as far as I can help it, I will not think of it; but I am sure that I

ought not to think about loving anyone, that is, in the way you mean, while we are in such trouble at home. I

should not dare to meet any of your great friends, knowing that I had brought nothing with me but disgrace.

And I should fell that I was doing an injury to dear Edith, which would be worse to me than anything.

'Pray believe me that I am quite in earnest about this. I know that a gentleman ought not to marry any girl to

do himself and his family an injury by it; and I know that if I were to make such a marriage I should be

unhappy ever afterwards, even though I loved the man ever so dearly, with all my heart.' These last words she

had underscored at first, but the doing so had been the unconscious expression of her own affection, and had

been done with no desire on her part to convey that expression to him. But on reading the words she

'Therefore I know that it will be best that I should wish you goodbye, and I do so, thanking you again and

The letter when it was written was hateful to her; but she had tried her hand at it again and again, and had

found that she could do nothing better. There was much in his letter that she had not attempted to answer. He

had implored her to tell him whether or no she did no truth love him. Of course she loved him. He knew that

well enough. Why should she answer any such question? There was a way of answering it indeed which

might serve her turnor rather serve his, of which she was thinking more than of her own. She might say

that she did not love him. It would be a lie, and he would know it would be a lie. But still it might serve the

turn. She did not like the idea of writing such a lie as that, but nevertheless she considered the matter. It

would be very wicked; but still, if it would serve the turn, might it not be well to write it? But at last she

reflected that, after all, the doing of the thing was in her own hands. She could refuse to marry this man

without burdening her conscience with any lie about it. It only required that she should be firm. She

abstained, therefore, from the falsehood, and left her lover's question unanswered. So she put up her letter and

On the day after this she got a second letter, and that she showed immediately to Mrs Dale. It was from her

mother, and was written to tell that her father was seriously ill. 'He went up to London to see a lawyer about

this weary work of the trial,' said Mrs Crawley. 'The fatigue was very great, and on the next day he was so

weak that he could not leave his bed. Dr Turner, who has been very kind, says that we need not frighten

ourselves, but he thinks it must be some time before he can leave the house. He has a low fever on him, and

wants nourishment. His mind has wandered once or twice, and he has asked for you, and I think it will be

best, love, that you should come home. I know you will not mind it when I say that I think he would like to

have you here. Dr Turner says that the illness is chiefly owing to his not having proper food.'

Of course she would go home. 'Dear Mrs Dale,' she said; 'I must go home. Can you send me to the station?'

Then Mrs Dale read the letter. Of course they would send her. Would she go on that day, or on the next?

Might it not be better to write first, and say that she was going? But Grace would go at once. 'I know it will

be a comfort to mamma; and I know that he is worse than mamma says.' Of course there was no more to be

said, and she was despatched to the station. Before she went Mrs Dale asked after her purse. 'If there is any

trouble about moneyfor your journey, or anything, you will not scruple to come to me as an old friend.'

But Grace assured her that there was no trouble about moneyfor her journey. Then Lily took her aside and

produced two clean new fivepound notes. 'Grace, dear, you won't be illnatured. You know I have a little

fortune of my own. You know I can give them without missing them.' Grace threw herself into her friend's

arms and wept, but would have none of her money. 'Buy a present from me to your motherwhom I love

though I do not know her.' 'I will give her your love,' Grace said, 'but nothing else.' And then she went.

Mr Dobbs Broughton and Mr Musselboro were sitting together on a certain morning at their office in the

City, discussing the affairs of their joint business. The City office was a very poor place indeed, in

comparison with the fine house which Mr Dobbs occupied at the West End; but then City offices are poor

places, and there are certain City occupations which seem to enjoy the greater credit the poorer are the

material circumstances by which they are surrounded. Turing out of a lane which turns out of Lombard

Street, there is a desolate, forlornlooking, dark alley, which is called Hook Court. The entrance to this alley

is beneath the firstfloor of one of the houses in the lane, and in passing under this covered way the visitor to

the place finds himself in a small paved square court, at the two further corners of which thee are two open

doors; for in Hook Court there are only two houses. There is No 1 Hook Court, and No 2 Hook Court. The

entire premises indicated by No 1 are occupied by a firm of wine and spirit merchants, in connexion with

whose trade one side and two angles of the court are always lumbered with crates, hampers, and wooden

cases. And nearly in the middle of the court, though somewhat more to the winemerchant's side than to the

other, there is always gaping open a trapdoor, leading down to the vaults below; and over the trap there is a

And this notice is so bright and so large, and the trapdoor is so conspicuous in the court, that no visitor, even

to No 2, ever afterwards can quite divest his memory of those names, Burton and Bangles, Himalaya wines. It

may therefore be acknowledged that Burton and Bangles have achieved their object in putting up the notice.

The house No 2, small as it seems to be, standing in the jamb of a corner, is divided among different

occupiers, whose names are painted in small letters upon the very dirty posts of the doorway. Nothing can be

more remarkable than the contrast between Burton and Bangles and these other City gentlemen in the method

taken by them in declaring their presence to visitors in the court. The names of Dobbs Broughton and of A.

Musselborothe Christian name of Mr Musselboro was Augustuswere on one of those dirty posts, not

joined together by any visible 'and', so as to declare boldly that they were partners; but in close

vicinityshowing at least that the two gentlemen would be found in apartments very near to each other. And

on the firstfloor of this house Dobbs Broughton and his friend did occupy three rooms or rather two

rooms and a closetbetween them. The larger and front room was tenanted by an old clerk, who sat within a

rail in one corner of it. And there was a broad, short counter, which jutted out from the wall into the middle of

the room, intended for the use of such of the public as might come to transact miscellaneous business with

Dobbs Broughton or Augustus Musselboro. But anyone accustomed to the look of offices might have seen

with half an eye that very little business was ever done on that counter. Behind this large room was a smaller

one, belonging to Dobbs Broughton, in the furnishing and arrangement of which some regard was paid to

comfort. The room was carpeted, and there was a sofa in it, though a very old one, and two armchairs and a

mahogany officetable, and a cellaret, which was generally well supplied with wine which Dobbs Broughton

did not get out of the vaults of his neighbours, Burton and Bangles. Behind this again, but with a separate

entrance from the passage, was the closet; and this closet was specially devoted to the use of Mr Musselboro.

Closet as it wasor cupboard as it might have almost been calledit contained a table and two chairs; and

it had a window of its own, which opened out upon a blank wall which was distant from it not above four

feet. As the house to which this wall belonged was four storeys high, it would sometimes happen that Mr

Musselboro's cupboard was rather dark. But this mattered the less as in these days Mr Musselboro seldom

used it. Mr Musselboro, who was very constant at his place of businessmuch more constant than his friend

Dobbs Broughton,was generally to be found in his friend's room. Only on some special occasions, on

which it was thought expedient that the commercial world should be made to understand that Mr Augustus

Musselboro had an individual existence of his own, did that gentleman really seat himself in the dark closet.

Mr Dobbs Broughton, had he been asked what was his trade, would have said that he was a stockbroker; and

he would have answered truly, for he was a stockbroker. A man may be a stockbroker though he never sells

any stock; as he may be a barrister though has not practiced at the bar. I do not say that Mr Broughton never

sold any stocks; but the buying and selling of stock for other people was certainly not his chief business. And

had Mr Musselboro been asked what was his trade, he would have probably given an evasive answer. At any

rate in the City, and among people who understood City matters, he would not have said that he was a

stockbroker. Both Mr Broughton and Mr Musselboro bought and sold a good deal, but it was chiefly on

account. The shares which were bought and sold very generally did not pass from hand to hand; but the

difference in the price of the shares did do so. And then they had another little business between them. They

lent money on interest. And in this business there was a third partner, whose name did not appear on the dirty

doorpost. That third partner was Mrs Van Siever, the mother of Clara Van Siever whom Mr Conway

On a certain morning Mr Broughton and Mr Musselboro were sitting together in the office which has been

described. They were in Mr Broughton's room, and occupied each armchair on the different sides of the fire.

Mr Musselboro was sitting close to the table, on which a ledger was open before him, and he had a pen and

ink before him, as though he had been at work. Dobbs Broughton had a small bettingbook in his hand, and

was seated with his feet up against the side of the fireplace. Both men wore their hats, and the aspect of the

room was not the aspect of a place of business. They had been silent for some minutes when Broughton took

his cigarcase out of his pocket, and nibbled off the end of a cigar, preparatory to lighting it.

'What do I care? If you think I'm going to be afraid of Mother Van, you're mistaken. Let come what may, I'm

'All right,' said Musselboro, and he took up his pen and went to work at his book.

'And this is February. What would she have? She had better put her dirty money into the three per cents, if

'What, the whole of it? Of course she can't. You know that as well as I do. She can have four hundred pounds,

if she wants it. But seeing all she gets out of the concern, she has no right to press for it in that way. She is the

'Likes her money! By George she does; her own and anybody else's that she can get hold of. For a downright

leech, recommend me always to a woman. When a woman does go in for it, she is much more thorough than

any man.' Then Broughton turned over the little pages of his book, and Musselboro pondered over the big

'There's something about nine hundred and fifteen pounds due to her,' said Musselboro.

'It would be a very good thing to let her have it if you've got it. The whole of it this morning, I mean.'

'And I'm to draw out every shilling that there is! I'll see Mother Van further first. She can have 500

pounds if she likes itand the rest in a fortnight. Or she can have my noteofhand for it all at fourteen

'Then she must lump it. I'm not going to bother myself about her. I've pretty nearly as much money in it as

she has, and we're in a boat together. If she comes here bothering, you'd better tell her so.'

'Not unless she comes within the next ten minutes. I must go down to the court. I said I'd be there by twelve.

'Why should I stay for her? If she thinks that I'm going to make myself her clerk, she's mistaken. It may be all

very well for you, Mussy, but it won't do for me. I'm not dependent on her, and I don't want to marry her

'And how will she get it?' said Dobbs Broughton. 'I haven't a doubt in life but she'd take it tomorrow if she

could put her hands upon it. And then, after a bit, when she began to find that she didn't like four per cent,

she'd bring it back again. But nobody can do business after such a fashion as that. For the last three years

she's drawn close upon two thousand a year for less than eighteen thousand pounds. When a woman wants to

'Of course I have. And who has made the connexions; and who has done the work? I suppose she doesn't

'If you talk of work, Dobbs, it is I that have done the most of it.' This Mr Musselboro said in a very serious

'And you've been paid for what you've done. Come, Mussy, you'd better not turn against me. You'll never get

your change out of that. Even if you marry the daughter, that won't give you the mother's money. She'll stick

to every shilling of it till she dies; and she'd take it with her then, if she knew how.' Having said this, he got

up from his chair, put his little book into his pocket, and walked out of the office. He pushed his way across

the court, which was more than ordinarily crowded with the implements of Burton and Bangles' trade, and as

he passed under the covered way he encountered at the entrance an old woman getting out of a cab. The old

woman was, of course, Mother Van, as her partner, Mr Dobbs Broughton irreverently called her. 'Mrs Van

Siever, how d'ye do? Let me give you a hand. Fare from South Kensington? I always give the fellow three

'You don't mean to tell me it's six miles!' And she tendered a florin to the man.

'Can't take it! But you must take it. Broughton, just get a policeman, will you?' Dobbs Broughton satisfied the

driver out of his own pocket, and the cab was driven away. 'What did you give him?' said Mrs Van Siever.

'It'll be out of your own pocket, then,' said Mrs Van. 'But you're not going away?'

'I must be at Capel Court by halfpast twelve;I must, indeed. If it wasn't real business, I'd stay.'

'He's up there, and he knows all about the business just as well as I do. When I found that I couldn't stay for

you, I went through the account with him, and it's all settled. Good morning. I'll see you at the West End in a

day or two.' Then he made his way out into Lombard Street, and Mrs Van Siever picked her steps across the

yard, and mounted the stairs, and made her way into the room in which Mr Musselboro was sitting.

'Somebody's been smoking, Gus,' she said, almost as soon as she had entered the room.

'There's no good being done when men sit and smoke over their work. Is it you, or he, or both of you?'

'How can I tell, Mrs Van Siever,' said Musselboro, laughing. 'If he did run away when you came, I suppose it

'And why shouldn't he want to see me? Gus, I expect the truth from you. How are things going on here?' To

this question Mr Musselboro made no immediate answer; but tilted himself back in his chair and took his hat

off, and put his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, and looked his patroness full in the face. 'Gus,'

'You don't mean to say he takes the money out of the business for that?' And Mrs Van Siever's face, as she

asked the question, expressed almost a tragic horror. 'If I thought that I wouldn't give him an hour's mercy.'

'When a man bets he doesn't well know what money he uses. I can't say that he takes money that is not his

own. Situated as I am, I don't know what is his own and what isn't. If your money was in my name I could

keep a hand on it;but as it is not I can do nothing. I can see that what is put out is put out fairly well; and

when I think of it, Mrs Van Siever, it is quite wonderful that we've lost so little. It has been next to nothing.

'Then I'll go into it, and I'll find it out, and if it is so, as sure as my name's Van Siever, I'll sew him up.'

Having uttered which terrible threat, the old woman drew a chair to the table and seated herself fairly down,

as though she were determined to go through all the books of the office before she quitted that room. Mrs

Van Siever in her present habiliments was not a thing so terrible to look at as she had been in her wiggeries at

Mrs Dobbs Broughton's dinnertable. Her curls were laid aside altogether, and she wore simply a front

beneath her close bonnet and a very old front, too, which was not loudly offensive because it told no lies.

Her eyes were as bright, and her little wizen face was as sharp as ever; but the wizen face and the bright eyes

were not so much amiss as seen together with the old dark brown silk dress which she now wore, as they had

been with the wiggeries and the evening finery. Even now, in her morning costume, in her workaday

business dress, as we may call it, she looked to be very oldso old that nobody could guess her age. People

attempting to guess would say that she must be at least over eighty. And yet she was wiry, and strong, and

nimble. It was not because she was feeble that she was thought to be old. They who so judged of her were led

to their opinion by the extreme thinness of her face, and by the brightness of her eyes, joined to the depth of

the hollows in which they lay, and the red margin by which they were surrounded. It was not really the fact

that Mrs Van Siever was so very aged, for she had still some years to live before she would reach eighty, but

that she was such a weird old woman, so small, so ghastly, and so ugly! 'I'll sew him up, if he's robbing me,'

she said. 'I will indeed!' And she stretched out her hand to grab at the ledger which Musselboro had been

'You won't understand anything from that,' said he, pushing the book over to her.

'And where does he keep the figures that aren't straight sailing? That's the book I want to see.'

'Look here, Gusif I find you deceiving me I'll throw you overboard as sure as I'm a living woman. I will

indeed. I'll have no mercy. I've stuck to you, and made a man of you, and I expect you to stick to me.'

'Look here, Musselboro; if you're going to throw me over, just tell me so, and let us begin fair.'

'I'm not going to throw you over. I've always been on the square with you. Why don't you trust me out and

out, and then I could do a deal better for you. You ask me now about your money. I don't know about your

money, Mrs Van Siever. How am I to know anything about your money, Mrs Van Seiver? You don't give me

any power of keeping a hand upon Dobbs Broughton. I suppose you have security from Dobbs Broughton,

but I don't know what security you have, Mrs Van Siever. He owes you now 915 pounds 16s 2d on last year's

'He says he can't spare it. You may have 500 pounds, and the rest when he can give it to you. Or he'll give

'It's the interest on my own money. Why don't he give it me? I suppose he has had it.'

'You must ask him that, Mrs Van Siever. You're in partnership with him, and he can tell you. Nobody knows

anything about it. If you were in partnership with me, then of course I could tell you. But you're not. You've

The lady remained there closeted with Mr Musselboro for an hour after that, and did, I think, at length learn

something more as to the details of her partner's business than her faithful servant Mr Musselboro had at first

found himself able to give to her. And at last they came to friendly and confidential terms, in the midst of

which the personal welfare of Mr Dobbs Broughton was, I fear, somewhat forgotten. Not that Mr Musselboro

palpably and plainly threw his friend overboard. He took his friend's partalleging excuses for him, and

pleading some facts. 'Of course, you know, a man like that is fond of pleasure, Mrs Van Siever. He's been at

it more or less all his life. I don't suppose he ever missed a Derby or an Oaks, or the cup at Ascot, or the

Goodwood in his life.' 'He'll have to miss them before long, I'm thinking,' said Mrs Van Siever. 'And as to not

cashing up, you must remember, Mrs Van Siever, that ten per cent won't come in quite as regularly as four or

five. When you go for high interest, there must be hitches here and there. There must, indeed, Mrs Van

Siever.' 'I know all about it,' said Mrs Van Siever. 'If he gave it to me as soon as he got it himself, I shouldn't

complain. Never mind. He's only got to give me my little bit of money out of the business, and then he and I

Then Mr Musselboro put Mrs Van Siever into another cab, and went out upon the 'Changehanging about

the Bank, and standing in Threadneedle Street, talking to other men just like himself. When he saw Dobbs

Broughton he told that gentleman that Mrs Van Siever had been in her tantrums, but that he had managed to

pacify her before she left Hook Court. 'I'm to take the cheque for the five hundred tonight,' he said.

On the first of March, Conway Dalrymple's easel was put up in Mrs Dobbs Broughton's boudoir upstairs, the

canvas was placed upon it on which the outlines of Jael and Sisera had been already drawn, and Mrs

Broughton and Clara Van Siever and Conway Dalrymple were assembled with the view of steady artwork.

But before we see how they began their work together, we will go back for a moment to John Eames on his

return to his London lodgings. The first thing every man does when he returns home after an absence, is to

look for his letters, and John Eames looked at his. There were not very many. There was a note marked

immediate from Sir Raffle Buffle, in which Sir R had scrawled in four lines a notification that he should be

driven to an extremity of inconvenience if Eames were not at his post at halfpast nine on the following

morning. 'I think I see myself there at that hour,' said John. There was a notification of a house dinner, which

he was asked to join, at his club, and a card for an evening gathering at Lady Glencora Palliser'sprocured

for him by his friend Conwayand an invitation for dinner at the house of his uncle Mr Toogood; and there

was a scented noted in the handwriting of a lady, which he did not recognise. 'My dearest, dearest friend, M

D M,' he said, as he opened the note and looked at the signature. Then he read the letter from Miss

'MY DEAR MR EAMES, 'Pray come to me at once. I know that you are to be back tomorrow. Do not lose an

hour if you can help it. I shall be at home at halfpast five. I fear what you know of has begun. But it

certainly shall not go on. In one way or another it must be prevented. I won't say another word till I see you,

'Beautiful!' said Johnny, as he read the note. 'There's nothing I like so much as a mysteryespecially if it's

about nothing. I wonder why she is so desperately anxious that the picture should not be painted. I'd ask

Dalrymple, only I should spoil the mystery.' Then he sat himself down, and began to think of Lily. There

could be no treason to Lily in his amusing himself with the freaks of such a woman as Miss Demolines.

At eleven o'clock on the morning of the first of Marchthe day following that on which Miss Demolines

had written her notethe easel was put up and the canvas was placed on it in Mrs Broughton's room. Mrs

Broughton and Clara were both there, and when they had seen the outlines as far as it had been drawn, they

proceeded to make arrangements for their future operations. The period of work was to begin always at

eleven, and was to be continued for an hour and a half or for two hours on the days on which they met. I fear

that there was a little improper scheming in this against the two persons whom the ladies were bound to obey.

Mr Dobbs Broughton invariably left his house after ten in the morning. It would sometimes happen, though

not frequently, that he returned home early in the dayat four perhaps, or even before that; and should he

chance to do so while the picture was going on, he would catch them at their work if the work were

postponed till after luncheon. And then again Mrs Van Siever would often go out in the morning, and when

she did so, would always go without her daughter. On such occasion she went into the City, or to other

resorts of business, at which, in some manner quite unintelligible to her daughter, she looked after her money.

But when she did not go out in the morning, she did go out in the afternoon, and she would then require her

daughter's company. There was some place to which she always went of a Friday morning, and at which she

stayed for two or three hours. Friday therefore was a fitting day on which to begin the work at Mrs

Broughton's house. All this was explained between the three conspirators. Mrs Dobbs Broughton declared

that if she entertained the slightest idea that her husband would object to the painting of the picture in her

room, nothing on earth would induce her to lend her countenance to it; but yet it might be well not to tell him

just at first, perhaps not till the sittings were overperhaps not till the picture was finished; as otherwise,

tidings of the picture might get round to ears which were not intended to hear it. 'Poor dear Dobbs is so

careless with a secret.' Miss Van Siever explained her motives in a different way. 'I know mamma would not

let me do it if she knew it; and therefore I shall not tell her.' 'My dear Clara,' said Mrs Broughton with a smile

'you are so outspoken!' 'And why not?' said Miss Van Siever. 'I am old enough to judge for myself. If mamma

does not want me to be deceived, she ought not to treat me as a child. Of course she'll find it out sooner or

later; but I don't care about that.' Conway Dalrymple said nothing as the two ladies were thus excusing

themselves. 'How delightful it must be not to have a master,' said Mrs Broughton, addressing him. 'But then a

man has to work for his own bread,' said he. 'I suppose it comes about equal in the long run.'

Very little drawing or painting was done on that day. In the first place it was necessary that the question of

costume should be settled, and both Mrs Broughton and the artist had much to say on that subject. It was

considered proper that Jael should be dressed as a Jewess, and there came to be much question how Jewesses

dressed themselves in those very early days. Mrs Broughton had prepared her jewels and raiment of many

colours, but the painter declared that the wife of Heber the Kenite would have no jewels. But when Mrs

Broughton discovered from her Bible that Heber had been connected by family ties with Moses, she was

more than ever sure that Heber's wife would have much in her tent of the spoilings of the Egyptians. And

when Clara Van Siever suggested that at any rate she would not have worn them in a time of confusion when

soldiers were loose, flying about the country, Mrs Broughton was quite confident that she would have put

them on before she invited the captain of the enemy's host into her tent. The artist at last took the matter into

his own hand, by declaring that Miss Van Siever would sit the subject much better without jewels, and

therefore all Mrs Broughton's gewgaws were put back into their boxes. And then on four different times the

two ladies had to retire into Mrs Broughton's room in order that Jael might be arrayed in various

costumesand in each costume she had to kneel down, taking the hammer in her hand, and holding the

pointed stick which had been prepared to do duty as the nail, upon the forehead of the dummy Sisera. At last

it was decided that her raiment should be altogether white, and that she should wear, twisted round her head

and falling over her shoulder, a Roman silk scarf of various colours. 'Where Jael could have gotten I don't

know,' said Clara. 'You may be sure that there were lots of such things among the Egyptians,' said Mrs

'And who is to be Sisera?' asked Mrs Broughton in one of the pauses in their work.'

'There's no reason why you should,' said Dalrymple. 'I can do the second figure in my own room.' Then there

was a bargain made that Sisera should not be a portrait. 'It would never do,' said Mrs Broughton, shaking her

Though there was really very little done to the picture on that day, the work was commenced; and Mrs

Broughton, who had at first objected strongly to the idea, and who had said twenty times that it was quite out

of the question that it should be done her house, became very eager in her delight about it. Nobody should

know anything of the picture till it should be exhibited. That would be best. And it should be the picture of

the year! She was a little heartbroken when Dalrymple assured her that it could not possible be finished for

exhibition in that May; but she came to again when he declared that he meant to put out all his strength upon

it. 'There will be five or six months' work in it,' he said. 'Will there, indeed? And how much work was there in

"The Graces"?' 'The Graces', as will perhaps be remembered, was the triple portrait of Mrs Dobbs Broughton

herself. This question the artist did not answer with absolute accuracy, but contented himself with declaring

that with such a model as Mrs Broughton the picture had been comparatively easy,

Mrs Broughton, having no doubt that ultimate object of which she had spoken to her friend Conway steadily

in view, took occasion before the sitting was over to leave the room, so that the artist might have an

opportunity of speaking a word in private to his modelif he had any such word to speak. And Mrs

Broughton, as she did this, felt that she was doing her duty as a wife, a friend, and a Christian. She was doing

her duty as a wife, because she was giving the clearest proof in the worldthe clearest at any rate to

herselfthat the intimacy between herself and her friend Conway had in it nothing that was improper. And

she was doing her duty as a friend, because Clara Van Siever, with her large expectations, would be an

eligible wife. And she was doing her duty as a Christian, because the whole thing was intended to be moral.

Miss Demolines had declared that her friend Maria Clutterbuckas Miss Demolines delighted to call Mrs

Broughton, in memory of dear old innocent dayshad high principles; and the reader will see that she was

justified in her declaration. 'It will be better so,' said Mrs Broughton, as she sat upon her bed and wiped a tear

from the corner of her eye. 'Yes; it will be better so. There is a pang. Of course there's a pang. But it will be

better so.' Acting upon this high principle, she allowed Conway Dalrymple five minutes to say what he had to

say to Clara Van Siever. Then she allowed herself to indulge in some very savage feelings in reference to her

husbandaccusing her husband in her thoughts of great crueltynay, of brutality, because of certain sharp

words that he had said as to Conway Dalrymple. 'But of course he can't understand,' said Mrs Broughton to

But she allowed her friend on this occasion only five minutes, thinking probably that so much time might

suffice. A woman, when she is jealous, is apt to attribute to other woman with whom her jealousy is

concerned, both weakness and timidity, and to the man both audacity and strength. A woman who has herself

taken perhaps twelve months in the winning, will think that another woman is to be won in five minutes. It is

not to be supposed that Mrs Dobbs Broughton had ever been won by anyone except Mr Dobbs Broughton. At

least, let it not be supposed that she had ever acknowledged a spark of love for Conway Dalymple. But

nevertheless there was enough of jealousy in her present mood to make her think poorly of Miss Van Siever's

capacity for standing a siege against the artist's eloquence. Otherwise, having left the two together with the

object which she had acknowledged to herself, she would hardly have returned to them after so short an

'I hope you won't dislike the trouble of all this?' said Dalrymple to his model, as soon as Mrs Broughton was

'I shall if I am not prevented,' said Miss Van Siever. 'When I've said that I'll do a thing, I like to do it.'

There was a pause in the conversation which took up a considerable portion of the five minutes. Miss Van

Siever was not holding her nail during those moments, but was sitting in a commonplace way on her chair,

while Dalrymple was scraping his palette. 'I wonder what it was that first induced you to sit?' said he.

'I'm very glad you did take the fancy. You'll make an excellent model. If you won't mind posing again for a

'Never mind. Let us try it.' Then Mrs Broughton returned, with that pleasant feeling in her bosom of having

done her duty as a wife, friend, and a Christian. 'Mrs Broughton,' continued the painter, 'just steady Miss Van

Siever's shoulder with your hand; and now bring the arm and the elbow a little more forward.'

At the end of an hour and a half the two ladies retired, and Jael disrobed herself, and Miss Van Siever put on

her customary raiment. It was agreed among them that they had commenced their work auspiciously, and that

they would meet again on the following Monday. The artist begged to be allowed an hour to go on with his

work in Mrs Broughton's room, and thus the hour was conceded to him. It was understood that he could not

take the canvas backwards and forwards with him to his own house, and he pointed out that no progress

whatever could be made, unless he were occasionally allowed some such grace as this. Mrs Broughton

doubted and hesitated, made difficulties, and lifted up her hands in despair. 'It is easy for you to say, Why

not? but I know very well why not?' But at last she gave way. 'Honi soit qui mal y pense,' she said; 'that must

be my protection.' So she followed Miss Van Siever downstairs, leaving Mr Dalrymple in possession of her

boudoir. 'I shall give you just one hour,' she said, 'and then I shall come and turn you out.' So she went down,

and, as Miss Van Siever would not stay to lunch with her, she ate her lunch by herself, sending a glass of

Exactly at the end of the hour she returned to him. 'Now, Conway, you must go,' she said.

'Because I say that it must be so. When I say so, pray let that be sufficient.' But still Dalrymple went on

'Yes, disdain. Have I not begged you to understand that I cannot allow you to remain here, and yet you pay no

'I have done now'; and he began to put his brushes and paints together. 'I suppose all these things may remain

'Yes; they may remain. They must do so, of course. There; if you will put the easel in the corner, with the

canvas behind it, they will not be seen if he should chance to come into the room.'

'There is no knowing. Men are so unreasonable. All men are, I think. All those are whom I have had the

fortune to know. Women generally say that men are selfish. I do not complain so much that they are selfish as

that they are thoughtless. They are headstrong and do not look forward to results. Now youI do not think

'Oh, never mind. I am not thinking of anything in particular. From myself, for instance. But we will not talk

about that. That way madness lies. Tell me, Conway;what do you think of Clara Van Siever?'

'What woman is there worth a straw that has not? If Clara Van Siever were illused, she would resent it. I do

'But there is plenty of feminine softness in that character, if she were treated with love and kindness. Conway,

if you will take my advice you will ask Clara Van Siever to be your wife. But perhaps you have already.'

'There are two or three reasons;but perhaps none of any great importance. Do you know of none, Mrs

'I know of none,' said Mrs Broughton in a very seriousin almost a tragic tone;'of none that should weigh

'I mean to be kind. I do, indeed, Conway. I know it will be better for you that you should be settledvery

much better. And it will be better for me. I do not mind admitting that;though in saying so I trust greatly to

'There is no question of flattery, Conway. The question is simply of truth and prudence. Do you not know that

'Not unless a certain gentleman were to die first,' said Conway Dalrymple, as he deposited the last of his

painting paraphernalia in the recess which had been prepared for them by Mrs Broughton.

'I can assure that I do not wish the gentleman in question the slightest harm in the world. If his welfare

'Indeed, it is;oh, who can say how important! There was a time, Conway, when I thought that you had

'She thought that there was. At any rate, she said so. I know that for certain. She told me so herself. But let

that pass. Clara Van Siever is in every respect very different from Madalina. Clara, I think, is worthy of you.

And Conwayof course it is not for me to dictate to you; but this I must tell you'

'I will tell you nothing more. If you cannot understand what I have said, you must be more dull of

comprehension than I believe you to be. Now go. Why are you not gone this halfhour?'

'I have not asked you to stay. Go now, at any rate. And, remember, Conway, if this picture is to go on, I will

not have you remaining here after the work is done. Will you remember that?' And she held him by the hand

Mrs Dobbs Broughton was no more in love with Conway Dalrymple than she was in love with King Charles

on horseback at Charing Cross. And, over and beyond the protection which came to her in the course of

nature from impassioned feelings in this special phase of her lifeand indeed, if I may say, in every phase of

her lifeit must be acknowledged on her behalf that she did enjoy that protection which comes from what

we call principlethough the principle was not perhaps very high of its kind. Madalina Demolines had been

right when she talked of her friend Maria's principles. Dobbs Broughton had been so far lucky in that jump in

the dark which had made in taking a wife to himself, that he had not fallen upon a really vicious woman, or

upon a woman of strong feeling. It had come to be the lot of Mrs Dobbs Broughton to have six hours' work

every day of her life, I think that the work would have been done badly, but that it would have kept her fires

from all danger. As it was she had nothing to do. She had no child. She was not given to much reading. She

could not sit with a needle in her hand all day. She had no aptitude for May meetings, or the excitement of

charitable good works. Life with her was very dull, and she found no amusement within her reach so easy and

so pleasant as the amusement of pretending to be in love. If all that she did and all that she said could only

have been taken for its worth and for nothing more, by the different persons concerned, there was very little

in it to flatter Mr Dalrymple or to give cause for tribulation to Mr Broughton. She probably cared but little for

either of them. She was one of those women to whom it is not given by nature to care very much for

anybody. But, of the two, she certainly cared the most for Mr Dobbs Broughtonbecause Mr Dobbs

Broughton belonged to her. As to leaving Mr Dobbs Broughton's house, and putting herself into the hands of

another manno Imogen of a wife was ever less likely to take step so wicked, so dangerous, and so

But Conway Dalrymplethough now and again he had got a side glance at her true character with a

clearseeing eyedid allow himself to be flattered and deceived. He knew that she was foolish and ignorant,

and that she often talked wonderful nonsense. He knew also that she was continually contradicting

herselfas when she would strenuously beg him to leave her, while she would continue to talk to him in a

strain that prevented the possibility of his going. But, nevertheless, he was flattered, and he did believe that

she loved him. As to his love for herhe knew very well that it amounted to nothing. Now and again,

perhaps, twice a week, if he saw her as often, he would say something which would imply a declaration of

affection. He felt that as much as that was expected from him, and that he ought not to hope to get off

cheaper. And now that this little play was going on about Miss Van Siever, he did think that Mrs Dobbs

Broughton was doing her very best to overcome an unfortunate attachment. It is so gratifying to a young

man's feelings to suppose that another man's wife has conceived an unfortunate attachment for him! Conway

Dalrymple ought not to have been fooled by such a woman; but I fear that he was fooled by her.

As he returned home today from Mrs Broughton's house to his own lodgings he rambled out for a while into

Kensington Gardens, and thought of his position seriously. 'I don't see why I should not marry her,' he said to

himself, thinking of course of Miss Van Siever. 'If Maria is not in earnest it is not my fault. And it would be

my wish that she should be in earnest. If I suppose her to be so, and take her at her word, she can have no

right to quarrel with me. Poor Maria! At any rate it will be better for her, for no good can come of this kind of

thing. And, by heavens, with a woman like that, of strong feelings, one never knows what may happen.' And

then he thought of the condition he would be in, if he were to find her some fine day in his own rooms, and if

she were to tell him that she could not go home again, and that she meant to remain with him!

In the meantime Mrs Dobbs Broughton has gone down into her own drawingroom, had tucked herself up on

John Eames sat at his office on the day after his return to London, and answered the various letters which he

had found waiting for him at his lodgings on the previous evening. To Miss Demolines he had already written

from his club, a single line, which he considered to be appropriate to the mysterious necessities of the

occasion. 'I will be with you at a quarter to six tomorrow.J E. Just returned.' There was not another word;

and as he scrawled it at one of the club tables while two or three other men were talking to him, he felt rather

proud of his correspondence. 'It was capital fun,' he said; 'and after all'the 'all' on this occasion being Lily

Dale, and the sadness of his disappointment at Allington'after all, let a fellow be ever so down in the

mouth, a little amusement should do him good.' And he reflected further that the more a fellow be 'down in

the mouth', the more good the amusement would do him. He sent off his note, therefore, with some little

inward rejoicingand a word of two also of spoken rejoicing. 'What fun women are sometimes,' he said to

one of his friendsa friend with whom he was very intimate, calling him always Fred, and slapping his

'Good fortune, no. I never saw good fortune of that kind. But I've got hold of a young womanor rather a

young woman has got hold of me, who insists on having mystery with me. In the mystery itself there is not

the slightest interest. But the mysteriousness of it is charming. I have just written to her three words to settle

an appointment for tomorrow. We don't sign our names lest the Postmaster General should find out about it.'

'Well;she isn't ugly. She has just enough of good looks to make the sort of thing pass off pleasantly. A

After this fashion the note from Miss Demolines had been received, and answered at once, but the other

letters remained in his pocket till he reached his office on the following morning. Sir Raffle had begged him

to be there at halfpast nine. This he had sworn he would not do; but he did seat himself in his room at ten

minutes before ten, finding of course the whole building untenanted at that early hourthat unearthly hour,

as Johnny called it himself. 'I shouldn't wonder if he really is here this morning,' Johnny said, as he entered

the building, 'just that he may have the opportunity of jumping on me.' But Sir Raffle was not there, and then

Johnny began to abuse Sir Raffle. 'If I ever come here early to meet him again, because he says he means to

be here himself, I hope I may beblessed.' On that especial morning it was twelve before Sir Raffle made

his appearance, and Johnny avenged himselfI regret to have to tell itby a fib. That Sir Raffle fibbed first,

'Work, to be sure;and very hard work too. I believe the Chancellor of the Exchequer thinks that he can call

upon me to any extent that he pleases;just any extent that he pleases. He doesn't give me credit for a desire

'He knows I'm not one of the wearingout sort of men. You got my note last night?'

'I'm sorry that I troubled you; but I couldn't help it. I didn't expect to get a box full of papers at eleven o'clock

'You didn't put me out, Sir Raffle; I happened to have business of my own which prevented the possibility of

This was the way in which John Eames avenged himself. Sir Raffle turned his face upon his private secretary,

and his face was very black. Johnny bore the gaze without dropping an eyelid. 'I'm not going to stand it, and

he may as well know that at once,' Johnny said to one of his friends in the office afterwards. 'If he ever wants

anything really done, I'll do it;though it should take me twelve hours at a stretch. But I'm not going to

pretend to believe all the lies he tells me about the Chancellor of the Exchequer. If that is to be part of the

private secretary's business, he had better get somebody else.' But now Sir Raffle was very angry, and his

countenance was full of wrath as he looked down upon his subordinate minister. 'If I had come here, Mr

Eames, and had found you absent, I should have been very much annoyed, very much annoyed indeed, after

'You would have found me absent at the hour you named. As I wasn't there then, I think it's only fair to say

'At your age, Mr Eames, that's not for you to judge. If I had acted in that way when I was young I should

never have filled the position I now hold. I always remembered in those days that as I was the hand and not

the head, I was bound to hold myself in readiness whether work might be required of me or not.'

'Well, Sir Raffle, I cannot say that the Chancellor of the Exchequer detained me;but there was business. As

I've been here for the last two hours, I am happy to think that in this instance the public service will not have

Sir Raffle was still standing with his hat on, and with his back to the fire, and his countenance was full of

wrath. It was on his tongue to tell Johnny that he had better return to his former work in the outer office. He

greatly wanted the comfort of a private secretary who would believe in himor at least pretend to believe in

him. There are men who, though they have not sense enough to be true, have nevertheless sense enough to

know that they cannot expect to be really believed in by those who are near enough to them to know them.

Sir Raffle Buffle was such a one. He would have greatly delighted in the services of someone who would

trust him implicitlyof some young man who would really believe all that he said of himself and of the

Chancellor of the Exchequer; but he was wise enough to perceive that no such young man was to be had; or

that any such mancould such a one be foundwould be absolutely useless for any purposes of work. He

knew himself to be a liar whom nobody trusted. And he knew himself also to be a bullythough he could

not think so low of himself as to believe that he was a bully whom nobody feared. A private secretary was at

the least bound to pretend to believe in him. There is a decency in such things, and that decency John Eames

did not observe. He thought that he must get rid of John Eames, in spite of certain attractions which belonged

to Johnny's appearance and general manners, and social standing, and reputed wealth. But it would not be

wise to punish a man on the spot for breaking an appointment which he himself had not kept, and therefore he

would wait for another opportunity. 'You had better go to your own room now,' he said. 'I am engaged on a

matter connected with the Treasury, in which I will not ask for your assistance.' He knew that Eames would

not believe a word as to what he said about the Treasurynot even some very trifling base of truth which did

exist; but the boast gave him an opportunity of putting an end to the interview after his own fashion. Then

John Eames went to his own room and answered the letters which he had in his pocket.

To the club dinner he would not go. 'What's the use of paying two guineas for a dinner with fellows you see

every day of your life?' he said. To Lady Glencora's he would go, and he wrote a line to his friend Dalrymple

proposing that they should go together. And he would dine with his cousin Toogood in Tavistock Square.

'One meets the queerest people in the world there,' he said; 'but Tommy Toogood is such a good fellow

himself!' After that he had his lunch. Then he read the paper, and before he went away he wrote a dozen or

two of private notes, presenting Sir Raffle's compliments right and left, and giving in no one note a single

word of information that could be of any use to any person. Having thus earned his salary by halfpast four

o'clock he got into a hansom cab and had himself driven to Porchester Terrace. Miss Demolines was at home,

of course, and he soon found himself closeted with that interesting young woman.

'Fiddlesticks!Bread! As if I didn't know that you can get away from your office when you choose.'

'I'm not tied up like a dog, certainly; but who do you suppose will do my work if I do not do it myself? It is a

fact, though the world does not believe it, that men in public offices have something to do.'

'Now you are laughing at me, I know; but you are welcome, if you like it. It's the way of the world just at

'Chaff, as you call it. Courtesy is out of fashion, and gallantry has come to signify quite a different kind of

'The Sir Charles Grandison business is done and gone. That's what you mean, I suppose? Don't you think we

'I'm not going to ask you to be a Sir Charles Grandison, Mr Eames. But never mind all that now. Do you

'She has. You may take my word for it. I know it as a fact. What a fool that young man is!'

'Which young man! Conway Dalrymple to be sure. Artists are always weak. Of all men in the world they are

the most subject to flattery from women; and we all know that Conway Dalrymple is very vain.'

'Yes, you do. You must know it. When a man goes about in a purple velvet coat of course he is vain.'

'Yes, this morning. They little think that the can do nothing without my knowing it. He was there for nearly

four hours, and she was dressed up in a white robe as Jael, with a turban on her head. Jael indeed! I call it

very improper, and I am quite astonished that Maria Clutterbuck should have lent herself to such a piece of

work. That Maria was never very wise, of course we all know; but I thought that she had principle enough to

'That's just it. She must have excitement. It is like dramdrinking. And then, you know, they are always

'The Dobbs Broughtons are. Of course they are. There is no saying what day a smash may come. They City

'I'm afraid there is very little that's certain with Dobbs Broughton. But about this picture, Mr Eames. I look to

you to assist me there. It must be put a stop to. As to that I am determined. It must beput astop to.' And

as Miss Demolines repeated these last words with a tremendous emphasis she leant with both her elbows on a

little table that stood between her and her visitor, and looked with all her eyes into his face. 'I do hope that

'Indeed no. Why should not Dalrymple paint Miss Van Siever as well as any other lady? It is his special

'Look her, Mr Eames' And now Miss Demolines, as she spoke drew her own seat closer to that of her

companion and pushed away the little table. 'Do you suppose that Conway Dalrymple, in the usual way of his

business, paints pictures of young ladies of which their mothers know nothing? Do you suppose that he paints

them in ladies' rooms without their husbands' knowledge? And in the common way of his business does he

'Is the welfare of your friend nothing to you? Would you like to see him become the victim of the artifice of

'And would you wish to see that poor creature's domestic hearth ruined and broken up?'

'I can't pretend that I care very much for Dobbs Broughton,' said John Eames; 'and you see I know so little

'Besides, her principles will pull her through. You told me yourself that Mrs Dobbs Broughton had high

'God forbid that I should say a word against Maria Clutterbuck,' said Miss Demolines fervently. 'Maria

Clutterbuck was my early friend, and though words have been spoken which never should have been spoken,

and though things have been done which never should have been dreamed of, still I will not desert Maria

'I have endeavoured to be so, and always shall. You will find me so;that is if you and I ever become

'There is nothing on earth I should like better,' said Johnny. As soon as these words were out of his mouth, he

felt ashamed of himself. He knew that he did not in truth desire the friendship of Miss Demolines, and that

any friendship with such a one would mean something different from friendshipsomething that would be

an injury to Lily Dale. A week had hardly passed since he had sworn a life's constancy to Lily Dalehad

sworn it, not to her only, but to himself; and now he was giving way to a flirtation with this woman, not

'Then you must earn my friendship by doing what I ask of you. That picture must not be painted. You must

tell Conway Dalrymple as his friend that he must cease to carry on such an intrigue in another man's house.'

'Certainly I would when it's kept a secret from the husband by the wifeand from the mother by the

daughter. If it cannot be stopped in any other way, I must tell Mrs Van Siever;I must, indeed. I have such

an abhorrence of the old woman, that I could not bring myself to speak to herbut I should write to her.

'But what's the reason? You might as tell me the real reason.' Had Miss Demolines been christened Mary, or

Fanny, or Jane, I think that John Eames would now have called her by either of those names; but Madalina

was such a mouthful that he could not bring himself to use it at once. He had heard that among her intimates

she was called Maddy. He had an idea that he had heard Dalrymple in old times talk of her as Maddy

Mullins, and just at this moment the idea was not pleasant to him; at any rate he could not call her Maddy as

'I hate that girl like poison!' said Miss Demolines, confidentially, drawing herself very near to Johnny as she

'What has she done? I can't tell you what she has done. I could not demean myself by repeating it. Of course

we all know what she wants. She wants to catch Conway Dalrymple. That's as plain as anything can be. Not

'Not in the least. It's nothing to me. I have known Conway Dalrymple, no doubt, for a year or two, and I

should be sorry to see a young man who has his good points sacrificed in that sort of way. But it is mere

'He thinks so; does he? I suppose that is what Maria has told him. Oh, Mr Eames, you don't know the

'Than some women. I see women doing things that really disgust me; I do indeed;things that I wouldn't do

myself, were it ever so;striving to catch men in every possible way, and for such purposes! I wouldn't have

believed it of Maria Clutterbuck. I wouldn't indeed. However I will never say a word against her, because she

John Eames before he left Porchester Terrace, had at last succeeded in calling his fair friend Madalina, and

had promised that he would endeavour to open the artist's eyes to the folly of painting his picture in

A day or two after the interview which was described in the last chapter John Eames dined with his uncle Mr

Thomas Toogood, in Tavistock Square. He was in the habit of doing this about once a month, and was a great

favourite both with his cousins and with their mother. Mr Toogood did not give dinnerparties; always

begging those whom he asked to enjoy his hospitality, to take pot luck, and telling young men whom he

could treat with familiarity such as his nephewthat if they wanted to be regaled a la Russe they must not

come to Number 75 Tavistock Square. 'A leg of mutton and trimmings; that will be about the outside of it,' he

would say; but he would add in a whisper'and a glass of port such as you don't get every day of your life.'

Polly and Lucy Toogood were pretty girls, and merry withal, and certain young men were well contented to

accept the attorney's invitation whether attracted by the promised leg of mutton, or the port wine, or the

young ladies, I will not attempt to say. But it had so happened that one young man, a clerk from John Eames's

office, had partaken so often of the put luck and port wine that Polly Toogood had conquered him by her

charms, and he was now a slave, waiting an appropriate time for matrimonial sacrifice. William Summerkin

was the young man's name; and as it was known that Mr Summerkin was to inherit a fortune amounting to

three hundred pounds from his maiden aunt, it was considered that Polly Toogood was not doing amiss. 'I'll

give you three hundred pounds, my boy, just to put a few sheets on the beds,' said Toogood the father, 'and

when the old birds are both dead she'll have a thousand pounds out of the nest. That's the extent of Polly's

fortune;so now you know.' Summerkin was, however, quite contented to have his own money settled on

his darling Polly, and the whole thing was looked at with pleasant and propitious eyes by the Toogood

When John Eames entered the drawingroom Summerkin and Polly were already there. Summerkin blushed

up to his eyes, of course, but Polly sat as demurely as though she had been accustomed to having lovers all

her life. 'Mamma will be down almost immediately, John,' said Polly as soon as the first greetings were over,

'Polly,' said her cousin, 'you should keep him in better order. He will certainly come to grief if he goes on like

'I have only been here just five minutes,' said Summerkin, 'and I came because Mrs Toogood asked me to do

'It's quite as civil as I wish him to be,' said Polly. 'And as for you, John, everybody knows that you're a goose,

and that you always were a goose. Isn't he always doing foolish things at the office, William?' But as John

Eames was rather a great man at the IncomeTax Office, Summerkin could not fall into his sweetheart's joke

on this subject, finding it easier and perhaps safer to twiddle the bodkins of Polly's workbasket. Then

Toogood and Mrs Toogood entered the room together, and the lovers were able to be alone again during the

'You don't know the Silverbridge peopledo you?' asked Mr Toogood. Eames said that he did not. He had

been at Silverbridge more than once, but did not know very much of the Silverbridgians. 'Because Walker is

'He's a lawyer. Walker and Winthrop. Everybody knows Walker in Barsetshire. I've been down at Barchester

'The Hogglestock clergyman that has come to grief? I don't know him personally. He's a sort of cousin by

'Of course he is,' said Toogood. 'His wife is my firstcousin, and your mother's first cousin. He came here to

me the other day;or rather to the shop. I had never seen the man before in my life, and a very queer fellow

he is too. He came to me about this trouble of his, and of course I must do what I can for him. I got myself

introduced to Walker, who has the management of the prosecution, and I asked him to come and dine

'I don't know what to say about it. I don't indeed. If he took it he didn't mean to steal it. I'm as sure that man

didn't mean to steal twenty pounds as I ever could be of anything. Perhaps I shall get something about it out

of Walker after dinner.' Then Mr Walker entered the room. 'This is very kind of you, Mr Walker; very indeed.

I take it quite as a compliment, your coming in in this sort of way. It's just pot luck, you know, and nothing

else.' Mr Walker of course assured his host that he was delighted. 'Just a leg of mutton and a bottle of old

port, Mr Walker,' continued Toogood. 'We never get beyond that in the way of dinnergiving; do, we,

But Maria was at this moment descanting on the good luck of the family to her nephewand on one special

piece of good luck which had just occurred. Mr Summerkin's maiden aunt had declared her intention of

giving up the fortune to the young people at once. She had enough to live upon, she said, and would therefore

make two lovers happy. 'And they're to be married on the first day of May,' said Lucythat Lucy of whom

her father had boasted to Mr Crawley that she knew Byron by heart'and won't that be jolly? Mamma is

going out to look for a house for them tomorrow. Fancy Polly with a house of her own! Won't it be stunning?

'Of course I know that you are in love. I hope you are not going to give over being in love, Johnny, because it

'I don't mean to be caught till some great swell comes this way. And as great swells never do come to

Tavistock Square, I shan't have a chance. I'll tell you what I would like; I'd like to have a Corsairor else a

Giaour;I think a Giaour would be nicest. Only a Giaour wouldn't be a Giaour here, you know. Fancy a

lover "who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slackened bit and hoof of speed." Were not those days

to live in! But all that is over now, you know, and young people take houses in Woburn Place, instead of

being locked up, or drowned, or married to a hideous monster behind a veil. I suppose it's better as it is, for

'I'm not quite sure. I know I'd go back and be Medora, if I could. Mamma is always telling Polly that she must

be careful about William's dinner. But Conrad didn't care for his dinner. "Light toil! to cull and dress my

'I don't think he got drunk at all. There is no reason why he should any more than William. Come along, and

take me down to dinner. After all, papa's leg of mutton is better than Medora's apples, when one is as hungry

The leg of mutton on this occasion consisted of soup, fish, and a bit of roast beef, and a couple of boiled

fowls. 'If I had only two children instead of twelve,' Mr Walker,' said the host, 'I'd give you a dinner a la

'I don't begrudge Mrs Toogood a single arrow in her quiver on that score,' said Mr Walker.

'People are getting to be so luxurious that one can't live up to them at all,' said Mrs Toogood. 'We dined out

here with some newcomers in the square only last week. We had asked them before, and they came quite in a

quiet wayjust like this; and when we got there we found they'd four kinds of ices after dinner!'

'And not a morsel of food on the table fit to eat,' said Toogood. 'I never was so poisoned in my life. As for

'And how is one to live with such people, Mr Walker?' continued Mrs Toogood. 'Of course we can't ask them

'They haven't got any at all,' said Toogood, triumphing; 'not a chick belonging to them. But you see one must

do as other people do. I hate anything grand. I wouldn't want more than this for myself, if banknotes were as

'But I can't bear to be outdone,' said Mr Toogood. 'I think it's very unpleasantpeople living in that sort of

way. It's all very well telling me that I needn't live so too;and of course I don't. I can't afford to have four

men in from the confectioner's dressed a sight better than myself, at ten shillings a head. I can't afford it, and I

don't do it. But the worst of it is that I suffer because other people do it. It stands to reason that I must either

be driven along with the crowd, or else be left behind. Now, I don't like either. And what's the end of it? Why

'Yes, I am; and I'm ashamed of myself. Mr Walker, I don't dare to ask you to drink a glass of wine with me in

my own housethat's what I don'tbecause it's the proper thing for you to wait till somebody brings it to

you, and then drink it by yourself. There is no knowing whether I mightn't offend you.' And Mr Toogood as

he spoke grasped the decanter at his elbow. Mr Walker grasped another at his elbow, and the two attorneys

'A very queer case this is of my cousin Crawley's,' said Toogood to Walker, when the ladies had left the

'A most distressing case. I never knew anything so much talked of in our part of the country.'

'No; not popularnot in the ordinary way;anything but that. Nobody knew him personally before this

'But a good clergyman, probably? I'm interested in the case, of course as his wife is my firstcousin. You will

understand, however, that I know nothing of him. My father tried to be civil to him once, but Crawley

wouldn't have it at all. We all thought he was mad then. I suppose he has done his duty in his parish?'

'Has he, indeed? But I'm not sure that I think very much about bishops, Walker.'

'That depends very much on the particular bishop. Some people say ours isn't all that a bishop ought to be,

'No, Mr Toogood; that isn't all. The worst of your cousin as that he has an aptitude to quarrel with everybody.

He is one of those men who always think themselves to be illused. Now our dean, Dr Arabin, has been his

very old friendand as far as I can learn, a very good friend; but it seems that Mr Crawley has done his best

'He may do thatand yet quarrel with him. He'd quarrel with his own right hand, if he nothing else to quarrel

with. That makes the difficulty, you see. He'll take nobody's advice. He thinks we're all against him.'

'The world has been very heavy on him,' said John Eames, who had now been left free to join the

conversation, Mr Summerkin having gone away to his ladylove. 'You must not judge him as you do other

'But why?' asked the attorney from Silverbridge. 'What do we mean when we say that one man isn't to be

'Then how can he be fit to have charge of a parish?' said Mr Walker. 'You see where the difficulty is. How it

embarrasses one all round. The amount of evidence as to the cheque is, I think, sufficient to get a verdict in

an ordinary case, and the Crown has not alternative but so to treat it. Then his friends come forwardand

from sympathy with his sufferings, I desire to be ranked among the numberand say, 'Ah, but you should

spare this man, because he is not responsible.' Were he one who filled no position requiring special

responsibility, that might be very well. His friends might undertake to look after him, and the prosecution

might perhaps be smothered. But Mr Crawley holds a living, and if he escape he will be

triumphantespecially triumphant over the bishop. Now, if he has really taken this money, and if his only

excuse be that he did not know when he took it whether he was stealing or whether he was notfor the sake

'A man isn't bound to show where he got his money,' said Johnny. 'Suppose that sovereign is marked,' and

Johnny produced a coin from his pocket, 'and I don't know but what it is; and suppose it is proved to have

belonged to someone who lost it, and then to be traced to my own handshow am I to say where I got it? If I

'But a cheque is not a sovereign, Mr Eames,' said Walker. 'It is presumed that a man can account for the

possession of a cheque. It may be that a man should have a cheque in his possession and not be able to

account for it, and should yet be open to no grave suspicion. In such a case a jury has to judge. Here is the

fact: that Mr Crawley has the cheque, and brings it in to use some considerable time after it is drawn; and the

additional fact that the drawer of the cheque had lost it, as he thought, in Mr Crawley's house, and had looked

for it there, soon after it was drawn, and long before it was paid. A jury must judge; but, as a lawyer, I should

'Did you find out anything, Mr Walker,' said Toogood, 'about the man who drove Mr Soames that day?'

'Pretty well for that, I believe. I've heard that the people are poor,' said Walker.

'Somebody told me that they'd had a queer lot about the house, and that three or four of them left just then. I

think I heard that two or three men from the place went to New Zealand together. It just came out in

After that there was a pause, and Mr Toogood pushed about the old port, and made some very stinging

remark as to the claretdrinking propensities of the age. 'Gladstone claret the most of it is, I fancy,' said Mr

Toogood. 'I find that port wine which my father bought in the wood fiveandtwenty years ago is good

enough for me.' Mr Walker said that it was quite good enough for him, almost too good, and that he thought

that he had had enough of it. The host threatened another bottle, and was up to draw the corkrather to the

satisfaction of John Eames, who liked his uncle's portbut Mr Walker stopped him. 'Not a drop more for

me,' he said. 'You are quite sure?' 'Quite sure.' And Mr Walker moved towards the door.

'It's a great pity, Mr Walker,' said Toogood, going back to that old subject, 'that the dean and his wife should

'Yesbut you know how very important it is to learn beforehand exactly what your witnesses can prove and

what they can't prove. And moreover, though neither the dean nor his wife might perhaps be able to tell us

anything themselves, they might help to put us on the proper scent. I think I'll send somebody after them. I

'Yes,' said Toogood mournfully, thinking of his twelve children; 'it would be a heavy expense. But I never

like to stick at a thing when it ought to be done. I think I shall send a fellow after them.'

'That alters the case,' said Mr Walker. And thus, before they left the diningroom, it was settled that John

Eames should be taught his lesson and should seek both Mrs Arabin and Dr Arabin on their travels.

On the morning after his return from London, Mr Crawley showed symptoms of great fatigue, and his wife

implored him to remain in bed. But this he would not do. He would get up, and go out down to the

brickfields. He has specially bound himself, he said, to see that the duties of the parish should not suffer by

being left in his hands. The bishop had endeavoured to place them in other hands, but he had persisted in

retaining them. As had done so he could allow no weariness of his own to interfereand especially no

weariness induced by labours undertaken on his own behalf. The day in the week had come round on which it

was his wont to visit the brickmakers, and he would visit them. So he dragged himself out of his bed and

went forth amidst the cold storm of a harsh wet March morning. His wife well knew when she heard his first

word on that morning that one of those terrible moods had come upon him which made her doubt whether she

ought to allow him to go anywhere alone. Latterly there had been some improvement in his mental health.

Since the day of his encounter with the bishop and Mrs Proudie, though he had been as stubborn as ever, he

had been less apparently unhappy, less depressed in spirits. And the journey to London had done him good.

His wife had congratulated herself on finding him able to set about his work like another man, and he himself

had experienced a renewal, if not of hope, at any rate, of courage, which had given him a comfort which he

had recognised. His commonsense had not been very striking in his interview with Mr Toogood, but yet he

had talked more rationally then and had given a better account of the matter in hand than could have been

expected from him for some weeks previously. But now the labour was over, a reaction had come upon him,

and he went away from his house having hardly spoken a word to his wife after the speech which he made

I think that at this time nobody saw clearly the working of his mindnot even his wife, who studied it very

closely, who gave him credit for all his high qualities, and who had gradually learned to acknowledge to

herself that she must distrust his judgment in many things. She knew that he was good, and yet weak, that he

was afflicted by false pride and supported by true pride, that his intellect was still very bright, yet so dismally

obscured on many sides as almost to justify people in saying that he was mad. She knew that he was almost a

saint, and yet almost a castaway through vanity and hatred of those above him. But she did not know that he

knew all this of himself also. She did not comprehend that he should be hourly telling himself that people

were calling him mad and were so calling him with truth. It did not occur to her that he could see her insight

into him. She doubted as to the way in which he had got the chequenever imagining, however, that he had

wilfully stolen itthinking that his mind had been so much astray as to admit of his finding it and using it

without wilful guiltthinking also, alas, that a man who could so act was hardly fit for such duties as those

which were entrusted to him. But she did not dream that this was precisely his own idea of his own state and

of his own position; that he was always inquiring of himself whether he was not mad; whether, if mad, he

was not bound to lay down his office; that he was ever taxing himself with improper hostility to the

bishopnever forgetting for a moment his wrath against the bishop and the bishop's wife, still comforting

himself to go to the palace and there humbly to relinquish his clerical authority. Such a course of action he

was proposing to himself, but not with any realised idea that he would so act. He was as a man who walks

along a river's bank thinking of suicide, calculating now best he might kill himselfwhether the river does

not offer an opportunity too good to be neglected, telling himself that the water is pleasant and cool, and that

his ears would soon be deaf to the harsh noises of the worldbut yet knowing, or thinking that he knows,

that he never will kill himself. So it was with Mr Crawley. Though his imagination pictured to himself the

whole scenehow he would humble himself to the ground as he acknowledged his unfitness, how he would

endure the smallvoiced triumph of the little bishop, how, from the abjectness of his own humility, even from

the ground on which he would be crouching, he would rebuke the loudmouthed triumph of the bishop's

wife; though there was no touch wanting to the picture which he thus drewhe did not really propose to

himself to commit this professional suicide. His wife, too, had considered whether it might be in truth

becoming that he should give up his clerical duties, at any rate for a while; but she had never thought that the

Mr Toogood had told him that people would say that he was mad; and Mr Toogood had looked at him, when

he declared for the second time that he had no knowledge whence the cheque had come to him, as though his

words were to be regarded as the words of some sick child; 'Mad!' he said to himself, as he walked home

from the station that night. 'Well; yes; and what if I am mad? When I think of all that I have endured my

wonder is that I should not have been mad sooner.' And then he prayedyes, prayed, that in his madness the

Devil might not be too strong for him, and that he might be preserved from some terrible sin of murder or

violence. What, if the idea should come to him in his madness that it would be well for him to slay his wife

and his children? Only that was wanting to make him of all men the most unfortunate.

He went down among the brickmakers on the following morning, leaving the house almost without a morsel

of food, and he remained at Hoggle End for the greater part of the day. There were sick persons there with

whom he prayed, and then he sat talking with rough men while they ate their dinners, and he read passages

from the Bible to women while they washed their husband's clothes. And for a while he sat with a little girl in

his lap teaching the child her alphabet. If it were possible for him he would do his duty. He would spare

himself in nothing, though he might suffer even to fainting. And on this occasion he did sufferalmost to

fainting, for as he returned home in the afternoon he was forced to lean from time to time against the banks

on the roadside, while the cold sweat of weakness trickled down his face, in order that he might recover

strength to go on a few yards. But he would persevere. If God would but leave to him mind enough for his

work, he would go on. No personal suffering should deter him. He told himself that there had been men in the

world whose sufferings were sharper even than his own. Of what sort had been the life of the man who had

stood for years at the top of a pillar? But then the man on the pillar had been honoured by all around him.

And thus, though he had thought of the man on the pillar to encourage himself be remembering how

lamentable had been that man's sufferings, he came to reflect that after all his own sufferings were perhaps

When he reached home, he was very ill. There was no doubt about it then. He staggered to his armchair, and

stared at his wife first, and then smiled at her with his ghastly smile. He trembled all over, and when food was

brought to him he could not eat it. Early on the next morning the doctor was by his bedside, and before that

evening came he was delirious. He had been at intervals in this state for nearly two days, when Mrs Crawley

wrote to Grace, and though she had restrained herself telling everything, she had written with sufficient

He was not so ill when Grace arrived home but that he knew her, and he seemed to received some comfort

from her coming. Before she had been in the house an hour she was reading Greek to him, and there was no

wandering in his mind as to the due emphasis to be given to the plaints of the injured heroines, or as to the

proper meaning of the choruses. And as he lay with his head half buried in the pillows, he shouted out long

passages, lines from tragic plays by the score, and for a while seemed to have all the enjoyment of a dear old

pleasure placed newly within his reach. But he tired of this after a while, and then, having looked round to see

'And what did they say? You need not think that you will shock me by telling me. They cannot say worse

'I don't know how to explain myself, papa; but we all know that it is very sad, and are quite sure that you have

'But people when they areyou know what I mean, Grace; when they are not themselvesdo things that are

wrong without meaning it.' Then he paused, while she remained standing by him with her hand on the back of

his. She was looking at his face, which had been turned towards her while they were reading together, but

which now was so far moved that she knew that his eyes could not be fixed upon hers. 'Of course if the

bishop orders it, it shall be so,' he said. 'It is quite enough for me that he is a bishop.'

'Nothing at all. It is she who does it. He has given me no opinion about it. Of course not. He has none to give.

It is the woman. You go and tell her from me that in such a matter I will not obey the word of any woman

Then she knew that her father's mind was wandering, and she knelt down by the bedside, still holding his

'Why do you not do what I tell you?' And he sat upright in his bed. 'I suppose you are afraid of the woman.'

'I was not afraid of her. When she spoke to me, I would have nothing to say to her;not a word;not a

word.' As he said this, he waved his hands about. 'But as for himif it must be, it must. I know I am not fit

for it. Of course I am not. Who is? But what has he ever done that he should be dean? I beat him at

everything; almost at everything. He got the Newdigate, and that was about all. Upon my word I think that

'Love me! psha! Does he ever come here to tea, as he used to do? No! I remember buttering toast for him

down on my knees before the fire, because he liked itand keeping all the cream for him. He should have

my heart's blood if he wanted it. But now;look at his books, Grace. It's the outside of them he cares for.

They are all gilt, but I doubt if he ever reads. As for herI will not allow any woman to tell me my duty.

No;but my Maker; not even your mother, who is the best of women. And as for her, with her little husband

dangling at her apron strings, as a callwhistle to be blown into when she pleasesthat she should dare to

teach me my duty! No! The men in the jurybox may decide how they will. If they can believe a plain story,

'Tell Mrs Proudie what I say; and as for Arabin's money, I took it. I know I took it. What would you have me

The next day he was better, and insisted upon getting out of bed, and on sitting in his old armchair over the

fire. And the Greek books were again had out; and Grace, not at all unwillingly, was put through her facings.

'If you don't take care, my dear,' he said, 'Jane will beat you yet. She understands the force of the verbs better

'I am very glad that she is doing so well, papa. I am sure I shall not begrudge her her superiority.'

'Ah, but you should begrudge it her!' Jane was sitting by at the time, and the two sisters were holding each

other By the hand. 'Always to be the best;always to be in advance of others. That should be your motto.'

'You can both strive to be best. But Grace has the better voice. I remember when I knew the whole of the

'You are wrong, and what can you do better with your leisure hours? Fie, Jane! I did not expect it from you.

When I was learning it I had eight or nine pupils, and read an hour a day with each of them. But I think that

nobody works now as they used to work then. Where is your mamma? Tell her I think I could get out as far

as Mrs Cox's, if she would help me dress.' Soon after this he was in bed again, and his head was wandering;

'You are more of a comfort to your papa than I can be,' said Mrs Crawley to her eldest daughter that night as

'I cannot read Greek plays to him as you can do. I can only nurse him in his illness and endeavour to do my

duty. Do you know, Grace, that it I am beginning to fear that he half doubts me?'

'That he half doubts me, and is half afraid of me. He does not think as he used to do, that I am altogether,

heart and soul, on his side. I can see it in his eyes as he watches me. He thinks that I am tired of himtired

of his sufferings, tired of his poverty, tired of the evil which men say of him. I am not sure but what he thinks

'Of general unfitness for the work he has to do. The feeling is not strong as yet, but I fear that he will teach

himself to think that he has an enemy at his hearthnot a friend. It will be the saddest mistake he ever made.'

'Were they, my dear? I am glad at least that he should say so to you. He has been better since you came;a

great deal better. For one day I was frightened; but I am very sorry now that I sent for you.'

'You were happy thereand comfortable. And if they were glad to have you, why should I have brought you

'But I was not happy;even though they were very good to me. How could I be happy there when I was

thinking of you and papa and Jane here at home? Whatever there is her, I would sooner share it with you than

'Only that I knew that one less in the house would be a saving to you I should not have gone. When there is

unhappiness, people should stay together;shouldn't they, mamma?' They were sitting quite close to each

other, on an old sofa in a small upstairs room, from which a door opened into the larger chamber in which Mr

Crawley was lying. It had been arranged between them that on this night Mrs Crawley should remain with her

husband, and that Grace should go to bed. It was now past one o'clock, but she was still there, clinging to her

mother's side, with her mother's arm drawn round her. 'Mamma,' she said, when they had both been silent for

'Of course you shall tell me what you please, dearest. Is it a secret? Is it something I am not to repeat?'

'Sit comfortably, mamma;there; like that, and let me have your hand. It's a terrible story to have to tell.'

'I mean that you must not draw away from me. I shall want to feel that you are quite close to me. Mamma,

'No, mamma; not at the Small House. But he came thereto see me. He asked meto be his wife. Don't

'My darling child! I won't move, dearest. Well; and what did you say to him? God bless him, at any rate. May

God bless him, because he has seen with a true eye, and felt with a noble instinct. It is something, Grace, to

'You had known him well beforeof course? I knew that you and he were friends, Grace.'

'Yes, we were friends. I always liked him. I used not to know what to think about him. Miss Anne Prettyman

'When Miss Anne Prettyman told me that I should be ready with my answer, and when I saw that Miss

Prettyman herself used to let him come to the house and seemed to wish that I should see him when he came,

and when he once wasso very gentle and kind, and when he said that he wanted me to love EdithOh,

'But, mamma, one is bound not to do a harm to anyone that one loves. So when he came to Allington I told

'Yes; I did. Was I not right? Ought I to go to him to bring a disgrace upon all the family, just because he is so

'If he loves you, Grace, the service he will require will be your love in return.'

'That is all very well, mammain books; but I do not believe it in reality. Being in love is very nice, and in

poetry they make it out to be everything. But I do not think I should make Major Grantly happy if when I

became his wife his own father and mother would not see him. I know I should be so wretched, myself, that I

'Yes;I think it would. And the archdeacon is very rich, and can leave all his money away from Major

Grantly if he pleases. Think what I should feel if I were the cause of Edith losing her fortune!'

'I have a reason for supposing them. This must be a secret. Miss Anne Prettyman wrote to me.'

'No, mamma; no, she was right. Would not I have wished, do you think, to have learned all the truth about the

matter before I answered him? Besides, it made no difference. I could have made no other answer while papa

is under such a terrible ban. It is no time for us to think of being in love. We have got to love each other. Isn't

it so, mamma?' The mother did not answer in words, but slipping down on her knees before her child threw

her arms found her girl's body in a close embrace. 'Dear mamma; dearest mamma; this is what I

'And trust me;and that we should understand each other, and stand close by each other. We can do so much

'That he knew that I loved him, and that thereforeBut, mamma, do not think of that. I will never be his

'He must take it, mamma. He shall take it. If he can be stubborn, so can I. If he knows how to think of me

more than himself, I can think of him and Edith more than of myself. That is not quite all, mamma. Then he

'Yes, I answered it. It was very bad, my letter. I should think after all that he will never want to have anything

'I don't in the least remember. It does not in the least signify now, but it was such a bad letter.'

'Gentleman is such a frightful word to have to use to a gentleman; but I did not know what else to say.

Mamma, if you please, we won't talk about it;not about the letter, I mean. As for him, I'll talk about him

'Yes, mamma, that he is; and it is that which makes me so proud. When I think of it, I can hardly hold myself.

Mr Toogood paid another visit to Barsetshire, in order that he might get a little further information which he

thought would be necessary before despatching his nephew upon the traces of Dean Arabin and his wife. He

went down to Barchester after his work was over by an evening train, and put himself up at 'The Dragon of

Wantly', intending to have the whole of the next day for his work. Mr Walker had asked him to come and

take a return potluck dinner with Mrs Walker at Silverbridge; and this he had said that he would do. After

having 'rummaged about for tidings' in Barchester, as he called it, he would take the train for Silverbridge,

and would get back to town in time for business on the third day. 'One day won't be much, you know,' he said

to his partner, as he made half an apology for absenting himself on business which was not to be in any

degree remunerative. 'That sort of thing is very well when one does it without any expense' said Crump. 'So it

is,' said Toogood; 'and the expense won't make it any worse.' He had made up his mind, and it was not

He saw John Eames before he started. 'You'll be ready this day week, will you?' John Eames promised that he

would. 'It will cost you some forty pounds, I should say. By Georgeif you have to go on to Jerusalem, it

will cost you more.' In answer to this, Johnny pleaded that it would be as good as any other tour to him. He

would see the world. 'I'll tell you what,' said Toogood; 'I'll pay half. Only you mustn't tell Crump. And it will

be quite as well not to tell Maria.' But Johnny would hear nothing of this scheme. He would pay the entire

cost of his own journey. He had lots of money, he said, and would like nothing better. 'Then I'll run down,'

said Toogood, 'and rummage up what tidings I can. As for writing to the dean, what's the good of writing to a

man when you don't know where he is? Business letters always lie at hotels for two months, and then come

back with double postage. From all I can hear, you'll stumble on her before you find him. If we do nothing

else but bring him back, it will be a great thing to have the support of such a friend in the court. A Barchester

Mr Toogood reached the 'Dragon' about eleven o'clock, and allowed the boots to give him a pair of slippers

and a candlestick. But he would to go to bed just at that moment. He would go into the coffeeroom first, and

have a glass of hot brandyandwater. So the hot brandyandwater was brought to him, and a cigar, and as

he smoked and drank he conversed with the waiter. The man was a waiter of the ancient class, a greyhaired

waiter, with seedy clothes, and a dirty towel under his arm; not a dapper waiter, with black shiny hair, and

dressed like a guest for a dinnerparty. There are two distinct classes of waiters, and as far as I have been

able to perceive, the special status of the waiter in question cannot be decided by observation of the class of

waiter to which he belongs. In such a town as Barchester you may find the old waiter with the dirty towel in

the head inn, or in the secondclass inn, and so you may the dapper waiter. Or you may find both in each and

not know which is senior waiter and which junior waiter. But for service I always prefer the old waiter with

the dirty towel, and I find it more easy to satisfy him in the matter of sixpence when my relations with the inn

'So I thought, by the look of you. One can see that you belong in a way to the place. You do a good deal of

'I don't know much about the times. It's the people is worse than the times, I think. They used to like to have a

little bit of dinner now and again at a hotel;and a drop of something to drink after it.'

'I think they like it well enough, but they don't do it. I suppose it's their wives as don't let 'em come out and

enjoy themselves. There used to be the Goose and Glee club;that was once a month. They've gone and

clean done away with themselvesthat club has. There's old Bumpter in the High Streethe's the last of the

old Geese. They died off, you see, and when Mr Biddle died they wouldn't choose another president. A club

'And there's the Freemasons. They must meet, you know, sir, in course, because of the dooties. But if you'll

believe me, sir, they don't so much as wet their whistles. They don't indeed. It always used to be a supper, and

that was once a month. Now they pays a rent for the use of the room! Who is to get a living out of that,

'If that's the way things are going on I suppose the servants leave their places pretty often?'

'I don't know about that, sir. A man may do a deal worse than "The Dragon of Wantly". Them as goes away

to better themselves, often worses themselves, as I call it. I've seen a good deal of that.'

'Yes, sir; I've been here fifteen years, I think it is. There's a many goes away, as doesn't go out of their heads,

'There's words between them and masteror more likely, missus. That's where it is. Servants is so foolish. I

often tell 'em how wrong folks are to say that soft words butter no parsnips, and hard words break no bones.'

'I think you've lost some of the old hands here since this time last year, John?'

'There was four of them sent, I think, it's just about twelve months back, sir.'

'There was a man in the yard I used to know, and last time I was down here, I found that he was gone.'

'There was one of 'em out of the yard, and two out of the house. Master and them had got to very high words.

There was poor Scuttle, who had been postboy at "The Compass" before he came here.'

'B'leve he did, sir; or to some foreign parts. And Anne, as was underchambermaid here; she went with him,

fool as she was. They got themselves married and went off, and he was well nigh as old as me. But seems

'Was he the man who drove Mr Soames that day the cheque was lost?' Mr Toogood asked this question

perhaps a little too abruptly. At any rate he obtained no answer to it. The waiter said he knew nothing about

Mr Soames, or the cheque, and the lawyer, suspecting that the waiter was suspecting him, finished his

Early on the following morning he observed that he was specially regarded by a shabbylooking man,

dressed in black, but in a black suit that was very old, with a red nose, whom he had seen in the hotel on the

preceding day; and he learned that this man was a cousin of the landlordone Dan Stringerwho acted as a

clerk in the hotel bar. He took an opportunity also of saying a word to Mr Stringer the landlordwhom he

found to be a somewhat forlorn and gouty individual, seated on cushions in a little parlour behind the door.

After breakfast he went out, and having twice walked round the Cathedral close and inspected the front of the

palace and looked up at the windows of the prebendaries' houses, he knocked at the door of the deanery. The

dean and Mrs Arabin were on the Continent he was told. Then he asked for Mr Harding, having learned that

Mr Harding was Mrs Arabin's father, and that he lived at the deanery. Mr Harding was at home, but was not

very well, the servant said. Mr Toogood, however, persevered, sending up his card, and saying that he wished

to have a few minutes' conversation with Mr Harding on very particular business. He wrote a word upon his

card before giving it to the servant'about Mr Crawley'. In a few minutes he was shown into the library, and

had hardly time, while looking at the shelves, to remember what Mr Crawley had said of his anger at the

beautiful buildings, before an old man, very thin and very pale, shuffled into the room. He stooped a good

deal, and his black clothes were very loose about his shrunken limbs. He was not decrepit, nor did he seem to

be one who had advanced to extreme old age; but yet he shuffled rather than walked, hardly raising his feet

from the ground. Mr Toogood, as he came forward to meet him, thought that he had never seen a sweeter

face. There was very much of melancholy in it, of that soft sadness of age which seems to acknowledge, and

in some sort to regret, the waning oil of life; but the regret to be read in such faces has in it nothing of the

bitterness of grief; there is no repining that the end has come, but simply a touch of sorrow that so much that

is dear must be left behind. Mr Harding shook hands with his visitor, and invited him to sit down, and then

seated himself, folding his hands together over his knees, and he said a few words in a very low voice as to

'It is no trouble at allif I could be of any use. I don't know whether it is proper, but may I ask whether you

'I'm glad of that; though of course I am well aware that the gentlemen engaged on the prosecution must do

their duty. StillI don't knowsomehow I would rather not hear of them speak of this poor gentleman

'Very slightlyvery slightly indeed. He is a gentleman not much given to social habits, and has been but

'I'm glad to hear you say that, Mr Harding. Perhaps before I go any further, I ought to tell you that Mrs

'I never saw him in my life till a few days ago. He is very queer, you knowvery queer indeed. I'm a lawyer,

Mr Harding, practising in London;and attorney, that is. At each separate announcement Mr Harding

bowed, and when Toogood named his special branch of his profession Mr Harding bowed lower than before,

as though desirous of showing that he had great respect for attorneys. 'And of course I'm anxious if only out

of respect for the family, that my wife's cousin should pull through this little difficulty, if possible.'

'And for the sake of the poor man himself too, and for his wife and children;and for the sake of the cloth.'

'Exactly; taking it all together it's such a pity, you know. I think, Mr Harding, he can hardly have intended to

'I feel quite sure he did not. He has been a most pious, hardworking clergyman. I cannot bring myself to think

that he is guilty. What does the Latin proverb say? "No one of a sudden becomes most base".'

'But the temptation, Mr Harding, was very strong. He was awfully badgered about his debts. That butcher at

'All the butchers in Barsetshire could not make an honest man steal money, and I think that Mr Crawley is an

'Why, he's my cousinor rather, my wife's. But the fact is, Mr Harding, we must get hold of the dean as

'I'm afraid he isor on his journey there. He's to be there for the Easter week, and Sunday week will be

Easter Sunday. But why should the gentleman want to go to Jerusalem after the dean?'

Then Mr Toogood explained as well as he was able that the dean might have something to say on the subject

which would serve Mr Crawley's defence. 'We shouldn't leave any stone unturned,' said Mr Toogood. 'As far

as I can judge, Crawley still thinksor half thinksthat he got the cheque from your soninlaw.' Mr

Harding shook his head sorrowfully. 'I'm not saying he did, you know,' continued Mr Toogood. 'I can't see

myself how it is possible;but still, we ought not to leave any stone unturned. And Mrs Arabincan you

'I can't quite say that she has, but it's just possible. As I said before, Mr Harding, we mustn't leave a stone

'And the assizes are the twentyeighth. The judges come into the city on that day. It will be too late too wait

till then. We must have our defence ready, you know. Can you say where my friend will find Mrs Arabin?'

Mr Harding began nursing his knee, patting and being very tender to it, as he sat mediating with his head on

one sidemeditating not so much as to the nature of his answer as to that of the question. Could it be

necessary that any emissary from a lawyer's office should be sent after his daughter? He did not like the idea

of his Eleanor being disturbed by questions as to a theft. Though she had been twice married and had a son

who was now nearly a man, still she was his Eleanor. But if it was necessary on Mr Crawley's behalf, of

course it must be done. 'Her last address was at Paris, sir; but I think she gone on to Florence. She has friends

there, and she purposes to meet the dean at Venice on his return.' Then Mr Harding turned to the table and

'She had not done so when she last wrote. I mentioned it to her the other day, before I knew that she had left

Paris. If my letters and her sister's letters have been sent on to her, she must know by now.'

Then Mr Toogood got up to take his leave. 'You will excuse me for troubling you, I hope, Mr Harding.'

'Oh, sir, pray do not mention that. It is no trouble, if one could be of any service.'

'One can always try to be of service. In these affairs so much is to be done by rummaging about, as I always

call it. There have been many theatrical managers, you know, Mr Harding, who have usually made up the

'In preparing a defence we have to rummage about and get up what we can. If we can't find anything that suits

us exactly, we are obliged to use what we do find as well as we can. I remember, when I was a young man, an

ostler was to be tried for stealing some oats in the Borough; and he did steal them too, and sold them at a

ragshop regularly. The evidence against was as plain as a pikestaff. All I could find out was that on a certain

day a horse had trod on a fellow's foot. So we put it to the jury whether the man could walk as far as the

'Dear, dear, dear! Wouldn't it have been better to have had him punished for the faultgently; so as to warn

'Our business was to get him offand we got him off. It's my business to get my cousin's husband off, if I

can, and we must do it by hook or by crook. It's a very difficult piece of work, because he won't let us employ

a barrister. However, I shall have one in the court and say nothing to him about it at all. Goodbye, Mr

Harding. As you say, it would be thousand pities that a clergyman should be convicted of a theft;and one

Mr Harding, when he was left alone, began to turn the matter over in his mind and to reflect whether the

thousand pities of which Mr Toogood had spoken appertained to the conviction of the criminal, or the doing

of the crime. 'If he did steal the money I suppose he ought to be punished, let him be ever so much a

clergyman,' said Mr Harding to himself. But yethow terrible it would be! Of clergymen convicted of fraud

in London he had often heard; but nothing of the kind had ever disgraced the diocese to which he belonged

since he had known it. He could not teach himself to hope that Mr Crawley should be acquitted if Mr

Crawley were guilty;but he could teach himself to believe that Mr Crawley was innocent. Something of a

doubt had crept across his mind as he talked to the lawyer. Mr Toogood, though Mrs Crawley was his cousin,

seemed to believe that the money had been stolen; and Mr Toogood as a lawyer ought to understand such

matters better than an old secluded clergyman in Barchester. But, nevertheless, Mr Toogood might be wrong;

and Mr Harding succeeded in satisfying himself at last that he could not be doing harm in thinking Mr

Toogood was wrong. When he had made up his mind on this matter he sat down and wrote the following

'Mr Toogood came here because he wanted to see the deanand you also. He did not explain, as far as I can

remember, why he wanted to see you; but he said it would be necessary, and that he was going to send off a

messenger to find you first, and the dean afterwards. It has something to do with the money which was given

to Mr Crawley last year, and which, if I remember right, was your present. But of course Mr Toogood could

not have known anything about that. However, I gave him the addressposte restante, Florenceand I

daresay that somebody will make you out before long, if you are still stopping in Florence. I did not like

letting him go without telling you about it, as I thought that a lawyer's coming to you would startle you.

'The bairns are quite well, as I told you in my other letter, and Miss Jones says that little Elly is as good as

gold. They are with me every morning and evening, and behave little darling angels, as they are. Posy is my

own little jewel always. You may be quite sure I do nothing to spoil them.God bless you, dearest Nelly,

After this he wrote another letter to his other daughter, Mrs Grantly, telling her also of Mr Toogood's visit;

and then he spent the remainder of the day thinking over the gravity of the occurrence. How terrible it would

be if a beneficed clergyman in the diocese should really be found guilty of theft by a jury from the city! And

then he had always heard so high a character of this man from his soninlaw. Noit was impossible to

Mr Toogood could get no further information in Barchester, and went on to Silverbridge early in the

afternoon. He was half disposed to go by Hogglestock and look up his cousin, whom he had never seen, and

his cousin's husband, upon whose business he was now intent; but on reflection he feared that he might do

more harm than good. He had quite appreciated the fact that Mr Crawley was not like other men. 'The man's

not above halfsaved,' he had said to his wifemeaning thereby to insinuate that the poor clergyman was

not in full possession of his wits. And, to tell the truth of Mr Toogood, he was a little afraid of his relative.

There was something in Mr Crawley's manner, in spite of his declared poverty, and in spite also of his

extreme humility, which seemed to announce that he expected to be obeyed when he spoke on any point with

authority. Mr Toogood had not forgotten the tone in which Mr Crawley had said to him, 'Sir, this is a thing

you cannot do.' And he thought that, upon the whole, he had better not go to Hogglestock on this occasion.

When at Silverbridge, he began at once to 'rummage about'. His chief rummaging was to be done at Mr

Walker's table; but before dinner he had time to call upon the magistrate's clerk, and ask a few questions as to

the proceedings at the sitting from which Mr Crawley was committed. He found a very taciturn old man, who

was nearly as difficult to deal with in any rummaging process as a porcupine. But, nevertheless, at last he

reached a state of conversation which was not absolutely hostile. Mr Toogood pleaded that he was the poor

man's cousinpleaded that, as the family lawyer, he was naturally the poor man's protector at such a time as

the presentpleaded also that as the poor man was so very poor, no one else could come forward on his

behalfand in this way somewhat softened the hard sharpness of the old porcupine's quills. But after all this,

there was very little to be learned from the old porcupine. 'There was not a magistrate on the bench,' he said,

'who had any doubt that the evidence was sufficient to justify them in sending the case to the assizes. They

had all regretted,'and the porcupine said in his softest moment'that the gentleman had come there

without a legal adviser.' 'Ah, that's been the mischief of it all!' said Mr Toogood, dashing his hand against the

porcupine's mahogany table. 'But the facts are so strong, Mr Toogood!' 'Nobody there to soften 'em down,

you know,' said Mr Toogood, shaking his head. Very little more than this was learned from the porcupine;

Mr Walker had invited Dr Tempest and Miss Anne Prettyman and Major Grantly to meet Mr Toogood, and

had explained, in a manner intended to be half earnest and half jocose, that though Mr Toogood was an

attorney, like himself, and was at this moment engaged in a noble way on behalf of his cousin's husband,

without any idea of receiving back even the money which he would be out of pocket, still he wasn't

quitenot quite, you know'not quite so much of a gentleman as I am'Mr Walker would have said, had

he spoken out freely that which he insinuated. But he contented himself with the emphasis he put upon the

'not quite', which expressed his meaning fully. And Mr Walker was correct in his opinion of Mr Toogood. As

regards the two attorneys I will not venture to say that either of them was not a 'perfect gentleman'. A perfect

gentleman is a thing which I cannot define. But undoubtedly Mr Walker was a bigger man in his way that

was Mr Toogood in his, and did habitually consort in the county of Barsetshire with men of higher standing

It seemed to be understood that Mr Crawley was to be the general subject of conversation, and no one

attempted to talk about anything else. Indeed, at this time, very little else was talked about in that part of the

county;not only because of the interest naturally attaching to the question of the suspected guilt of a parish

clergyman, but because much had become lately known of Mr Crawley's character, and because it was known

also that an internecine feud had arisen between him and the bishop. It had undoubtedly become the general

opinion that Mr Crawley had picked up and had used a cheque which was not his own;that he had, in fact,

stolen it; but there was, in spite of that belief, a general wish that he might be acquitted and left in his living.

And when the tidings of Mr Crawley's victory over the bishop at the palace had become bruited about,

popular sympathy went with the victor. The theft was, as it were, condoned, and people made excuses which

were not always rational, but which were founded on the instincts of true humanity. And now the tidings of

another stage in the battle, as fought against Mr Crawley by the bishop, had gone forth through the county,

and men had heard that the rural dean was to be instructed to make inquiries which should be preliminary to

proceedings against Mr Crawley in an ecclesiastical court. Dr Tempest, who was now about to meet Mr

Toogood at Mr Walker's, was the rural dean to whom Mr Crawley would have to submit himself in any such

inquiry; but Dr Tempest had not as yet received from the bishop any official order on the subject.

'We are so delighted to think that you have taken up your cousin's case,' said Mrs Walker to Mr Toogood in

'He is not just my cousin, himself,' said Mr Toogood, 'but of course it's all the same thing. And as to taking up

'Only on the sly, Mrs Walker. He has such queer ideas that he will not allow a lawyer to be properly

employed; and you can't conceive how hard that makes it. Do you know him, Mrs Walker?'

'We know his daughter Grace.' And then Mrs Walker whispered something further, which we may presume to

have been in intimation that the gentleman oppositeMajor Grantlywas supposed by some people to be

'Quite a child, isn't she?' said Toogood, whose own daughter, now about to be married, was three or four

'I do not know how that may be; but they do say he is very much attached to her. The major is a man of

family, and of course it would be very disagreeable if Mr Crawley were found guilty.'

'Very disagreeable indeed; but, upon my word, Mrs Walker, I don't know what to say about it.'

'You think it will go against him, Mr Toogood?' Mr Toogood shook his head, and seeing this, Mrs Walker

'I can only say that I have nothing from the bishop as yet,' said Dr Tempest, after the ladies had left the room.

'Three months, I should thinkor perhaps more. Of course Crawley would do all that he could to delay us,

'I cannot make such an inquiry be myself, you know. I suppose the bishop would ask me to select two or

three other clergymen to act with me. That's the usual way of doing it. But you may be quite sure of this,

Walker; the assizes will be over, and the jury have found their verdict long before we have settled our

'Which he won't' said Toogood, who thought it expedient to put on a bolder front in talking of the matter to

the rural dean, than he had assumed in his whispered conversation with Mrs Walker.

'I hope not, with all my heart,' said the doctor. 'But, perhaps, for the sake of the argument, the supposition

'If he be convicted, then, I suppose, there will be an end of the question. He would be sentenced for not less, I

'And would be as good a parson of Hogglestock when he came out of prison as when he went in,' said Mr

Walker. 'The conviction and judgment in a civil court would not touch his temporality.'

'Of course not,' said the doctor. 'We all know that; and in the event of Mr Crawley coming back to his parish

it would be open to the bishop to raise the question as to his fitness for the duties.'

'Simply because he would have been found guilty to be a thief,' said the doctor. 'You must excuse me, Mr

'I don't see what that has to do with it,' said Mr Toogood. 'He would have undergone his penalty.'

'It is preferable that a man who preaches from a pulpit should not have undergone such a penalty,' said the

doctor. 'But, in practice, under such circumstanceswhich we none of us anticipate, Mr Toogoodthe

living should no doubt be vacated. Mr Crawley would probably hardly wish to come back. The jury will do

their work before we can do ourswill do it on much better base than any we can have; and, when they have

done it, the thing ought to be finished. If the jury acquit him, the bishop cannot proceed any further. If he be

'Not at all,' said the doctor. 'The poor man is weak; that is all. He is driven to persecute because he cannot

escape persecution himself. But it may really be a question whether his present proceeding is not right. If I

From this and from much more that was said during the evening on the same subject, Mr Toogood gradually

learned the position which Mr Crawley and the question of Mr Crawley's guilt really held in the county, and

'I'll have a barrister down express, and I'll defend him in his own teeth,' he said to his wife. 'There'll be a

scene in court, I daresay, and the man will call upon his own counsel to hold his tongue and shut up his brief;

and, as far as I can see, counsel in such a case would have no alternative. But there would come an

explanationhow Crawley was too honourable to employ a man whom he could not pay, and there would be

a romance, and it would all go down with the jury. One wants sympathy in such a case as thatnot

'Only a trifle. We won't think of that yet. There's John Eames is going all the way to Jerusalem, out of his

'One doesn't have a cousin in trouble every day,' said Toogood. 'And then you see there's something very

'I've known the City now for more than ten years, Mr Crosbie, and I never knew money to be so tight as it is

at the moment. The best commercial bills going can't be done under nine, and any other kind of paper can't so

much as get itself looked at.' Thus spoke Mr Musselboro. He was seated in Dobbs Broughton's armchair in

Dobbs Broughton's room in Hook Court, on the hind legs of which he was balancing himself comfortably;

and he was communicating his experience in City matters to our old friend Adolphus Crosbieof whom we

may surmise that he would not have been there, at that moment, in Hook Court, if things had been going well

with him. It was now past eleven o'clock, and he should have been at his office at the West End. His position

in his office was not doubt high enough to place him beyond the reach of any special inquiry as to such

absences; but it is generally felt that when the Crosbies of the West End have calls into the City about noon,

things in the world are not going well with them. The man who goes into the City to look for money is

generally one who does not know where to get the money when he wants it. Mr Musselboro on this occasion

kept his hat on his head, and there was something in the way in which he balanced his chair which in itself an

offence to Mr Crosbie's personal dignity. It was hardly as yet two months since Mr Dobbs Broughton had

assured him in that very room that there need not be the slightest anxiety about his bill. Of course it could be

renewedthe commission being duly paid. As Mr Dobbs Broughton explained on that occasion, that was his

business. There was nothing he liked so much as renewing bills for such customers as Mr Crosbie; and he

was very candid at that meeting, explaining how he did this branch of his business, raising money on his own

credit at four or five per cent., and lending it on his own judgment at eight or nine. Mr Crosbie did not feel

himself then called upon to exclaim that what he was called upon to pay was about twelve, perfectly

understanding the comfort and grace of euphony; but he had turned it over in his mind, considering whether

twelve per cent. was not more than ought to be mulcted for the accommodation he wanted. Now, at the

moment, he would have been glad to get it from Mr Musselboro, without further words, for twenty.

Things had much changed with Adolphus Crosbie when he was driven to make morning visits to such a one

as Mr Musselboro with the view of having a bill renewed for two hundred and fifty pounds. In his early life

he had always had the merit of being a careful man as to money. In some other respects he had gone astray

very foolishlyas has been partly explained in our earlier chapters; but up to the date of his marriage with

Lady Alexandrina De Courcy he had never had dealings in Hook Court or in any such locality. Money

troubles had then come upon him. Lady Alexandrina, being the daughter of a countess, had high ideas; and

when, very shortly after his marriage, he had submitted to a separation from his noble wife, he had found

himself and his income to be tied up inextricably in the hands of Mr Mortimer Gazebee, a lawyer who had

married one of his wife's sisters. It was not that Mr Gazebee was dishonest; nor did Crosbie suspect him of

dishonesty; but the lawyer was so wedded to the interest of the noble family with which he was connected,

that he worked for them all as an inferior spider might be supposed to work, which, from the infirmity of its

nature, was compelled by instincts to be catching flies for superior spiders. Mr Mortimer Gazebee had in this

way entangled Mr Crosbie in his web on behalf of those noble spiders, the De Courcys, and our poor friend,

in his endeavour to fight his way through the web, had fallen into the hands of the Hook Court firm of Mrs

'Mr Broughton told me when I was last here,' said Crosbie, 'that there would be no difficulty about it.'

'Of course it wasfor two months. But he was speaking of a continuation of renewal.'

'I'm afraid we can't do it, Mr Crosbie. I'm afraid we can't, indeed. Money is so awful tight.'

'It isn't that, Mr Crosbie. The bill is out for collection, and must be collected. In times like these we must

draw ourselves in a little, you know. Two hundred and fifty pounds isn't a great deal of money, you will say;

but every little helps, you know; and, besides, of course we go upon a system. Business is business, and must

not be made pleasure of. I should have a great deal of pleasure in doing this for you, but it can't be done in the

'He may be in at any timeI can't say when. I suppose he's down at the court now.'

'If you catch him you can see him, of course. But what good will that do you, Mr Crosbie? I tell you we can't

do it for you. If Broughton was here at this moment, it couldn't make the slightest difference.'

Now Mr Crosbie had an idea that Mr Musselboro, though he sat in Dobbs Broughton's seat and kept on his

hat, and balanced his chair on two legs, was in truth nothing more than a clerk. He did not quite understand

the manner in which the affairs of the establishment were worked, though he had been informed that Mrs Van

Siever was one of the partners. That Dobbs Broughton was the managing man, who really did the business,

he was convinced; and he did not therefore like to be answered peremptorily by such a one as Musselboro. 'I

'You can call againor you can go down to the court if you like it. But you may take this as an answer from

me that the bill can't be renewed by us.' At this moment the door of the room was opened and Dobbs

Broughton himself came into it. His face was not at all pleasant, and anyone might have seen with half an eye

that the moneymarket was a great deal tighter than he liked it to be. 'Here is Mr Crosbie hereabout his

It might have been seen, I said, with half an eye, that Mr Broughton did not like the state of the

moneymarket; and it might also be seen with the other half that he had been endeavouring to mitigate the

bitterness of his dislike by alcoholic aid. Musselboro at once perceived that his patron and partner was half

drunk, and Crosbie was aware that he had been drinking. But, nevertheless, it was necessary that something

more should be said. The bill would be due tomorrowwas payable at Crosbie's bankers; and, as Mr Crosbie

too well knew, there were no funds there for that purpose. And there were other purposes, very needful, for

which Mr Crosbie's funds were at the present moment unfortunately by no means sufficient. He stood for a

few moments thinking what he would do;whether he would leave the drunken man and his office and let

the bill take its chance or whether he would make one more effort for an arrangement. He did not for a

moment believe that Broughton himself was subject to any pecuniary difficulty. Broughton lived in a big

house, as rich men live, and had a name for commercial success. It never occurred to Crosbie that it was a

matter of great moment to Dobbs Broughton himself that the bill should be taken up. Crosbie still thought

that Musselboro was his special enemy, and that Broughton had joined Musselboro in his hostility simply

because he was too drunk to know better. 'You might, at any rate, answer me civilly, Mr Broughton,' he said.

'I know nothing of civility with things as they are at present,' said Broughton. 'Civil by ! There's nothing

so civil as paying money when you owe it. Musselboro, reach me down the decanter and some glasses.

'What's up now?' said Broughton, staggering across the room towards a cupboard, in which it was his custom

to keep a provision of that comfort which he needed at the present moment. 'I suppose I may stand a glass of

'Then you can to do the other thing. When I ask a gentleman to take a glass of wine, there is no compulsion.

But about the bill there is compulsion. Do you understand that? You may drink, or let it alone; but pay you

must. Why, Mussy, what d'ye think?there's Carter, Ricketts and Carter;I'm blessed if Carter just now

didn't beg for two months, as though two months would be all the world to him, and that for a trumpery five

hundred pounds. I never saw money like it is now; never.' To this appeal, Musselboro made no reply, not

caring, perhaps, at the present moment to sustain his partner. He still balanced himself in his chair, and still

kept his hat on his head. Even Mr Crosbie began to perceive that Mr Musselboro's genius was in the

'I can hardly believe,' said Crosbie, 'that things can be so bad that I cannot have a bill for two hundred and

fifty pounds renewed when I am willing to pay for the accommodation. I have not done much in the way of

'Not if I can prevent it,' said Crosbie. 'But to tell you the truth, Mr Broughton, my bill will be dishonoured

unless I can have it renewed. If it does not suit you to do it, I suppose you can recommend me to someone

'Then you should try what your credit with them is worth,' said Broughton. 'It isn't worth much here, as you

Crosbie, when he heard this, became very angry; and Musselboro, perceiving this, got out of his chair, so that

he might be in readiness to prevent any violence, if violence were attempted. 'It really is no good your staying

here,' he said. 'You see that Broughton has been drinking. There is no knowing what he may say or do.'

'You be blowed,' said Broughton, who had taken the armchair as soon as Musselboro had left it.

'But you may believe me in the way of business,' continued Musselboro, 'when I tell you that it really does

not suit us to renew the bill. We're pressed ourselves, and we must press others.'

'There are Burton and Bangles there, the winemerchants down in the yard; perhaps they may accommodate

'That needn't stand in your way. You tell them where you come from, and they'll make inquiry. If they think

Mr Crosbie then left the office without exchanging another word with Dobbs Broughton, and went down into

Hook Court. As he descended the stairs he turned over in his mind the propriety of going to Messrs Burton

and Bangles with the view of relieving himself from his present difficulty. He knew that it was ruinous.

Dealing even with such men as Dobbs Broughton and Musselboro, whom he presumed to milder in their

greed than Burton and Bangles, were, all of them, steps on the road to ruin. But what was he to do? If his bill

were dishonoured, the fact would certainly become known at his office, and he might even ultimately be

arrested. In the doorway at the bottom of the stairs he stood for some moments, looking over at Burton and

Bangles', and he did not at all like the aspect of the establishment. Inside the office he could see a man

standing with a cigar in his mouth, very resplendent in his new hatwith a hat remarkable for the bold

upward curve of its rim, and this man was copiously decorated with a chain and seals hanging about widely

over his waistcoat. He was leaning with his back against the counter and was talking to someone on the other

side of it. There was something in the man's look and manner which was utterly repulsive to Crosbie. He was

more vulgar to the eye even than Musselboro, and his voice, which Crosbie could hear as he stood in the

other doorway, was almost as detestable as that of Dobbs Broughton in his drunkenness. Crosbie did not

doubt that this was either Burton or Bangles, and that the man standing inside was either Bangles or Burton.

He could not bring himself to accost these men and tell them of his necessities, and propose to them that they

should relieve him. In spite of what Musselboro had just said to him, he could not believe it possible that he

should succeed, were he to do so without some introduction. So he left Hook Court and went out into the

lane, hearing as he went the loud voice of the man with the turnedup hat and the chain.

But what was he to do? At the outset of his pecuniary troubles, when he first found it necessary to litigate

some question with the De Courcy people, and withstand the web which Mortimer Gazebee wove so

assiduously, his own attorney had introduced him to Dobbs Broughton, and the assistance which he had

needed had come to him, at any rate, without trouble. He did not especially like Mr Broughton; and when Mr

Broughton first invited him to come and eat a little bit of dinner, he had told himself with painful remorse

that in his early days he had been accustomed to eat his little bits of dinner with people of a different kind.

But there had been nothing really painful in this. Since his marriage with a daughter of the De Courcysby

which marriage he had intended to climb the highest pinnacle of social eating and drinkinghe had

gradually found himself to be falling in the scale of such matters, and could bring himself to dine with Dobbs

Broughton without any violent pain. But now he had fallen so low that Dobbs Broughton had insulted him,

and he was in such distress that he did not know where to turn for ten pounds. Mr Gazebee had beaten him at

litigation, and his own lawyer had advised him that it would be foolish to try the matter further. In his

marriage with the noble daughter of the De Courcys he had allowed the framers of the De Courcy settlement

to tie him up in such a way that now, even when chance had done so much for him in freeing him from his

wife, he was still bound to the De Courcy faction. Money had been paid awayon his behalf, as alleged by

Mr Gazebeelike running water; money for furniture, money for the lease of a house, money when he had

been separated from his wife, money while she was still living abroad. It had seemed to him that he had been

made to pay for the entire support of the female moiety of the De Courcy family which had settled itself at

BadenBaden, from the day, and in some respects from before the day, on which his wife had joined that

moiety. He had done all in his power to struggle against these payments, but every such struggle had only

cost him more money. Mr Gazebee had written to him the most civil notes; but every note seemed to cost him

money every word of each note seemed to find its way into some bill. His wife had died and her body had

been brought back, with all the pomp befitting the body of an earl's daughter, that it might be laid with the De

Courcy dustat his expense. The embalming of her dear remains had cost a wondrous sum, and was a

terrible blow upon him. All these items were showered upon him by Mr Gazebee with the most courteously

worded demands for settlement as soon as convenient. And then, when he applied that Lady Alexandrina's

small fortune should be made over to himaccording to a certain agreement under which he had made over

all his possessions to his wife, should she have survived himMr Gazebee expressed a mild opinion that he

was wrong in his law, and blandly recommended an amicable lawsuit. The amicable lawsuit carried on. His

own lawyer seemed to throw him over. Mr Gazebee was successful in everything. No money came to him.

Money was demanded from him on old scores and on new scoresand all that he received to console him

for what he had lost was a mourning ring with his wife's hairfor which, with sundry other mourning rings,

he had to payand an introduction to Mr Dobbs Broughton. To Mr Dobbs Broughton he owed five hundred

pounds; and as regarded a bill for the onehalf of that sum which was due tomorrow, Mr Dobbs Broughton

I know no more uncomfortable walking than that which falls to the lot of men who go into the City to look

for money, and who find none. Of all the lost steps trodden by men, surely the steps lost after that fashion are

the most melancholy. It is not only that they are so vain, but that they are accompanied by so killing a sense

of shame! To wait about in dingy rooms, which look on to bare walls, and are approached through some

Hook Court; or to keep appointments at a low coffeehouse, to which trystings the moneylender will not

trouble himself to come unless it pleases him; to be civil, almost suppliant, to a cunning knave whom the

borrower loathes; to be refused thrice, and then cheated with his eyes open on the fourth attempt; to submit

himself to vulgarity of the foulest kind, and to have to seem to like it; to be badgered, reviled, and at last

accused of want of honesty by the most fraudulent of mankind; and at the same time to be clearly conscious

of the ruin that is comingthis is the fate of him who goes into the City to find money, not knowing where it

Crosbie went along the lane into Lombard Street, and then he stood still for a moment to think. Though he

knew a good deal of affairs in general, he did not quite know what would happen to him of his bill should be

dishonoured. That somebody would bring it to him noted, and require him instantly to put his hand into his

pocket and bring out the amount of the bill, plus the amount of certain expenses, he thought that he did know.

And he knew that were he in trade he would become a bankrupt; and he was well aware that such an

occurrence would prove him to be insolvent. But he did not know what his creditors would immediately have

the power of doing. That the fact of the bill having been dishonoured would reach the Board under which he

servedand, therefore, also the fact that he had had recourse to such bill transactionsthis alone was

enough to fill him with dismay. In early life he had carried his head so high, he had been so much more than a

mere Government clerk, that the idea of the coming disgrace almost killed him. Would it not be well that he

should put an end to himself, and thus escape? What was there in the world now for which it was worth his

while to live? Lily, whom he had once gained, and by that gain had placed himself high in all hopes of

happiness and richeswhom he had thrown away from him, and who had again seemed to be almost within

his reachLily had so refused him that he knew not how to approach her with a further prayer. And, had she

not refused him, how could he have told her of his load of debt? As he stood at the corner where the lane runs

in Lombard Street, he came for a while to think almost more of Lily than of his rejected bill. Then, as he

thought of both his misfortunes together, he asked himself whether a pistol would not conveniently put an

At that moment a loud harsh voice greeted his ear. 'Hallo, Crosbie, what brings you so far east? One does not

often see you in the City.' It was the voice of Sir Raffle Buffle, which in former days had been very odious to

Crosbie's ears;for Sir Raffle Buffle had once been the presiding genius of the office to which Crosbie still

'No, indeed, not very often,' said Crosbie, smiling. Who can tell who has not felt it, the pain that goes with the

forcing of such smiles? But Sir Raffle was not an acutely observant person, and did not see that anything was

'I suppose you're doing a little business?' said Sir Raffle. 'If a man has kept a trifle of money by him, this

certainly is the time for turning it. You have always been wide awake about such things.'

'No, indeed,' said Crosbie. If he could only make up his mind that he would shoot himself, would it not be a

pleasant thing to inflict some condign punishment on this odious man before he left the world? But Crosbie

knew that he was not going to shoot himself, and he knew also that he had no power of inflicting condign

punishment on Sir Raffle Buffle. He could only hate the man, and curse him inwardly.

'Ah, ha!' said Sir Raffle. 'You wouldn't be here unless you knew where a good thing is to be picked up. But I

must be off. I'm on the Rocky Mountain Canal Company Directory. I'm not above taking my two guineas a

day. Goodbye, my boy. Remember me to old Optimist.' And so Sir Raffle passed on, leaving Crosbie still

What was he to do? This interruption had at least seemed to drive Lily from his mind, and to send his ideas

back to the consideration of his pecuniary difficulties. He thought of his own bank, a WestEnd

establishment at which he was personally known to many of the clerks, and where he had been heretofore

treated, with great consideration. But of late his balances had been very low, and more than once he had been

reminded that he had overdrawn his account. He knew well that the distinguished firm of Bounce, Bounce,

and Bounce would not cash a bill for him or lend him money without security. He did not even dare to ask

On a sudden he jumped into a cab, and was driven back to his office. A thought had come upon him. He

would throw himself upon the kindness of a friend there. Hitherto he had contrived to hold his head high

above the clerks below him, so high before the Commissioners who were above him, that none there

suspected him to be a man in difficulty. It not seldom happens that a man's character stands too high for his

interestso high that it cannot be maintained, and so high that any fall will be dangerous. And so it was with

Crosbie and his character at the General Committed Office. The man to whom he was now thinking of

applying as his friend was a certain Mr Butterwell, who had been his predecessor in the secretary's chair, and

who now filled the less onerous but more dignified position of a Commissioner. Mr Crosbie had somewhat

despised Mr Butterwell, and had of late years had not been averse to showing that he did so. He had snubbed

Mr Butterwell, and Mr Butterwell, driven to his wits' ends, had tried a fall or two with him. In all these

struggles Crosbie had had the best of it, and Butterwell had gone to the wall. Nevertheless, for the sake of

official decency, and from certain wise remembrances of the sources of official comfort and official

discomfort, Mr Butterwall had always maintained a show of outward friendship with the secretary. They

smiled and were gracious, called each other Butterwell and Crosbie, and abstained from all catanddog

absurdities. Nevertheless, it was the frequently expressed opinion of every clerk in the office that Mr

Butterwell hated Mr Crosbie like poison. This was the man to whom Crosbie suddenly made up his mind that

As he was driven back to the office he resolved that he would make a plunge at once at the difficulty. He

knew that Butterwell was fairly rich, and he knew also that he was goodnaturedwith that sort of sleepy

goodnature which is not active for philanthropic purposes, but which dislikes to incur the pain of refusing.

And then Mr Butterwell was nervous, and if the thing was managed well, he might be cheated out of an

assent, before time had been given him in which to pluck up courage for refusing. But Crosbie doubted his

own courage alsofearing that if he gave himself time for hesitation he would hesitate, and that, hesitating,

he would feel the terrible disgrace of the thing and not do it. So, without going to his own desk, or ridding

himself of his hat, he went at once to Butterwell's room. When he opened the door, he found Mr Butterwell

alone, reading The Times. 'Butterwell,' said he, beginning to speak before he had even closed the door, 'I have

come to you in great distress. I wonder whether you can help me; I want you to lend me five hundred

Mr Butterwell dropped the paper from his hands, and stared at the secretary over his spectacles.

Crosbie had been preparing the exact words with which he assailed Mr Butterwell for the last quarter of an

hour, before they were uttered. There is always a difficulty in the choice, not only of the words with which

money should be borrowed, but of the fashion after which they should be spoken. There is the slow deliberate

manner, in using which the borrower attempts to carry the wishedfor lender along with him by force of

argument, and to prove that the desire to borrow shows no imprudence on his own part, and that a tendency to

lend will show none on the part of the intended lender. It may be said that this mode fails oftener than any

other. There is the piteous mannerthe plea for commiseration. 'My dear fellow, unless you will see me

through now, upon my word I shall be very badly off.' And this manner may be divided again into two. There

is the plea piteous with a lie, and the plea piteous with a truth. 'You shall have it again in two months as sure

as the sun rises.' That is generally the plea piteous with a lie. Or it may be as follows; 'It is only fair to say

that I don't quite know when I can pay it back.' This is the plea piteous with a truth, and upon the whole I

think that this is generally the most successful mode of borrowing. And there is the assured demandwhich

betokens a close intimacy. 'Old fellow, can you let me have thirty pounds? No? Just put your name, then, on

the back of this, and I'll get it done in the City.' The worst of that manner is, that the bill so often does not get

itself done in the City. Then there is the sudden attackthat being the manner to which Crosbie had recourse

in the present instance. That there are other modes of borrowing by means of which youth becomes indebted

to age, and love to respect, and ignorance to experience, is a matter of course. It will be understood that I am

here speaking only of borrowing and lending between the Butterwells and Crosbies of the world. 'I have

come to you in great distress,' said Crosbie. 'I wonder whether you can help me. I want you to lend me five

hundred pounds.' Mr Butterwell, when he heard the words, dropped the paper which he was reading from his

'Yes it isa very large sum. Half that is what I want at once; but I shall want the other half in a month.'

'I thought that you were always so much above the world in money matters. Gracious me;nothing that I

have heard for a long time has astonished me more. I don't know why, but I always thought you had your

Crosbie was aware that he had made one very great step towards success. The idea had been presented to Mr

Butterwell's mind, and had not been instantly rejected as a scandalously iniquitous idea, as an idea to which

no reception could be given for a moment. Crosbie had not been treated as the needy knifegrinder, and had

ground to stand upon while he urged his request. 'I have been so pressed since my marriage,' he said, 'that it

'Yes, of course; I know. I do not like to trouble you with my private affairs;there is nothing, I think, so bad

as washing one's dirty linen in public;but the truth is, that I am only now free from the rapacity of the De

Courcys. You would hardly believe me if I told you what I've had to pay. What do you think of two hundred

and fortyfive pounds for bringing her body over here, and burying it at De Courcy?'

'And so would I. You don't suppose I ordered it to be done. Poor dear thing. If it could do her any good, God

knows I would not begrudge it. We had a bad time of it when we were together, but I would have spared

nothing for her, alive or dead, that was reasonable. But to make me pay for bringing the body over here, when

I never had a shilling with her! By George, it was too bad. And that oaf John De CourcyI had to pay his

'It's too disgusting to talk of, Butterwell; it is indeed. And when I asked for her money that was settled upon

meit was only two thousand poundsthey made me go to law, and it seems there was no two thousand

pounds to settle. If I like, I can have another lawsuit with the sisters, when the mother is dead. Oh, Butterwell,

I have made such a fool of myself. I have come to shipwreck! Oh, Butterwell, if you could but know it all.'

'I owe Gazebee, the man who married the other woman, over a thousand pounds. But I pay that off at two

'Don't ask me. Not that I mind telling you;furniture, and the lease of a house, and his bill for the marriage

'A man doesn't marry an earl's daughter for nothing, Butterwell. And then to think what I lost! It can't be

helped now, you know. As a man makes his bed he must lie on it. I am sometimes so mad with myself when I

'I don't mean that I shall. I'm too much of a coward, I fancy.' A man who desires to soften another man's heart

should always abuse himself. In softening a woman's heart, he should abuse her. 'But life has been so bitter

with me for the last three years! I haven't had an hour of comfort;not an hour. I don't know why I should

trouble you with all this Butterwell. Ohabout the money; yes; that's just how I stand. I owed Gazebee

something over a thousand pounds which is arranged as I have told you. Then there were debts, due by my

wifeat least some of them were, I supposeand that horrid, ghastly funeraland debts, I don't doubt, due

by the cursed old countess. At any rate, to get myself clear, I raised something over four hundred pounds, and

now I owe five which must be paid, part tomorrow, and the remainder this day month.'

'Not a rag, not a shred, not a line, not an acre. There's my salary, and after paying Gazebee what comes due to

him, I can manage to let you have the money within twelve monthsthat is, if you can lend it to me. I can

just do that and live; and if you will assist me with the money, I will do so. That's what I've brought myself to

'I know, Butterwell, that I've no right to ask for it. I feel that. Of course I should pay you what interest you

Mr Butterwell got out of his chair, and walked about the room with his hands in his pockets. He was thinking

at the moment of what Mrs Butterwell would say to him. 'Will an answer do tomorrow morning?' he said. 'I

would much rather have it today,' said Crosbie. Then Mr Butterwell took another turn about the room. 'I

'Butterwell,' said Crosbie, 'I'm eternally obliged to you. It's hardly too much to say that you have saved me

'Of course I was joking about interest,' said Butterwell. 'Five per cent. is the proper thing. You'd better let me

They were genuine tears which filled Crosbie's eyes, as he seized hold of the senior's hands. 'Butterwell,' he

'Oh, nonsense. Bytheby, would you mind telling Thompson to bring those papers to me which I gave him

yesterday? I promised Optimist I would read them before three, and it's past two now.' So saying he sat

himself down at his table, and Crosbie felt that he was bound to leave the room.

Mr Butterwell, when he was left alone, did not read the papers which Thompson brought him; but said,

instead, thinking of his five hundred pounds. 'Just put them down,' he said to Thompson. So the papers were

put down, and there they lay all that day and all the next. Then Thompson took them away again, and it is to

be hoped that somebody read them. Five hundred pounds! It was a large sum of money, and Crosbie was a

man for whom Mr Butterwell in truth felt no very strong affection. 'Of course he must have it now,' he said to

himself. 'But where should I be if anything should happen to him?' And then he remembered that Mrs

Butterwell especially disliked Mr Crosbiedisliked him because she knew that he snubbed her husband. 'But

it's hard to refuse, when one man has known another for more than ten years.' Then he comforted himself

somewhat with the reflection, that Crosbie would no doubt make himself more pleasant for the future than he

had done lately, and with a second reflection, that Crosbie's life was a good lifeand with a third, as to his

own great goodness, in assisting a brother officer. Nevertheless, as he sat looking out of the omnibus window,

on his journey home to Putney, he was not altogether comfortable in his mind. Mrs Butterwell was a very

But Crosbie was very comfortable in his mind on that afternoon. He had hardly dared to hope for success, but

he had been successful. He had not even thought of Butterwell as a possible fountain of supply, till his mind

had been brought back to the affairs of the office, by the voice of Sir Raffle Buffle at the corner of the street.

The idea that his bill would be dishonoured, and that tidings of his insolvency would be conveyed to the

Commissioners at his Board, had been dreadful to him. The way in which he had been treated by Musselboro

and Dobbs Broughton had made him hate City men, and what he supposed to be City ways. Now there had

come to him a relief which suddenly made everything feel light. He could almost think of Mr Mortimer

Gazebee without disgust. Perhaps after all there might be some happiness yet in store for him. Might it not be

possible that Lily would yet accept him in spite of the chilling letterthe freezing letter which he had

received from Lily's mother? Of one thing he was quite certain. If ever he had the opportunity of pleading his

own cause with her, he certainly would tell her everything respecting his money difficulties.

In that last resolve I think we may say that he was right. If Lily would ever listen to him again at all, she

certainly would not be deterred from marrying him by his own story of his debts.

One morning towards the end of March the squire rapped at the window of the drawingroom of the Small

House in which Mrs Dale and Lily were sitting. He had a letter in his hand, and both Lily and her mother

knew that he had come down to speak about the contents of the letter. It was always a sign of goodhumour

on the squire's part, this rapping at the window. When it became necessary to him in his gloomy moods to see

his sisterinlaw, he would write a note to her, and she would go across to him at the Great House. At other

times, if, as Lily would say, he was just then neither sweet nor bitter, he would go round to the front door and

knock, and be admitted after the manner of ordinary people; but when he was minded to make himself

thoroughly pleasant he would come and rap at the drawingroom window, as he was doing now.

'I'll let you in, uncle; wait a moment,' said Lily, as she unbolted the window which opened out upon the lawn.

'It's not cold at all,' said the squire. 'It's more like spring than any morning we've had yet. I've been sitting

'You won't catch us without one for the next two months; will he, mamma? You have got a letter, uncle. Is it

'Wellyes; I've brought it down to show you. Mary, what do you think is going to happen?'

A terrible idea occurred to Mrs Dale at that moment, but she was much to wise to give it expression. Could it

be possible that the squire was going to make a fool of himself and get married? 'I am very bad at guessing,'

'Then you've guessed right,' said the squire, a little annoyed at having his news thus taken out of his mouth.

'I am so glad,' said Mrs Dale; 'and I know from your manner that you like the match.'

'Wellyes. I don't know the young lady, but I think that upon the whole I do like it. It's quite time, you

'No; it's not Miss PartridgeI'm glad to say. I don't believe that the Partridges have a shilling among them.'

'No; not an heiress; but she will have some money of her own. And she had connexions in Barsetshire, which

'Her name is Emily Dunstable,' said the squire, 'and she is the niece of Miss Dunstable who married Dr

'She was the woman who had millions upon millions,' said Lily, 'and all got by selling ointment.'

'New mind how it was got,' said the squire angrily. 'Miss Dunstable married most respectably, and has always

'She will have twenty thousand pounds the day she marries, and I suppose that will be all.'

'It seems that old Mr Dunstable, as he was called, who, as Lily says, sold the ointment, quarrelled with his

son or with his son's widow, and left nothing either to her or to her child. The mother is dead, and the aunt,

Dr Thorne's wife, has always provided for the child. That's how it is, and Bernard is going to marry her. They

'I've known Dr Thorne for the last forty years;' and the squire now spoke in a low melancholy tone. 'I've

written to him to say that the young people shall have the old place up there to themselves if they like it.'

'I wonder whether she will ask me to be a bridesmaid?' said Lily. 'They'd sat that Chaldicotes is such a pretty

place, and I should see all the Barsetshire people that I've been hearing about from Grace. Poor Grace! I

know that the Grantlys and the Thornes are very intimate. Fancy Bernard having twenty thousand pounds

Then the squire produced a photograph of Emily Dunstable which his nephew had sent to him, and they all

pronounced her to be very pretty, very much like a lady, and to be very goodhumoured. The squire was

evidently pleased with the match, and therefore the ladies were pleased also. Bernard Dale was the heir to the

estate, and his marriage was of course a matter of moment; and as on such properties as that of Allington

money is always wanted, the squire may be forgiven for the great importance which he attached to the young

lady's fortune. 'Bernard could hardly have married prudently without any money,' he said'unless he had

But the squire's budget of news had not yet been emptied. He told them soon afterwards that he himself had

been summoned up to London. Bernard had written to him, begging him to come and see the young lady; and

the family lawyer had written also, saying that his presence in town would be very desirable. 'It is very

troublesome, of course; but I shall go,' said the squire. 'It will do you all the good in the world,' said Mrs

Dale; 'and of course you ought to know her personally before the marriage.' And then the squire made a clean

breast of it and declared his full purpose. 'I was thinking that, perhaps, Lily would not object to go up to

'Mamma never objects to anything. I should like to see her objecting to that!' And Lily shook her head at her

'Does she, indeed? And I particularly want to see Miss Dunstable. How nice! Mamma, I don't think I've ever

been in London since I wore short frocks. Do you remember taking us to the pantomime? Only think how

many years ago that is. I'm quite sure it's time that Bernard should get married. Uncle, I hope you're prepared

'And the opera, and Madame Tussaud, and the Horticultural Gardens, and the new conjuror who makes a

woman lie upon nothing. The idea of my going to London! And then I suppose I shall be one of the

bridesmaids. I declare a new vista of life is opening out to me! Mamma, you mustn't be dull while I'm away.

'You must get Bell and the children to come. But I cannot imagine living away from home a month. I was

And Lily did go up to town with her uncle, two days only after having been allowed to her for her

preparations. There was very much for to think of in such a journey. It was not only that she would see Emily

Dunstable who was to be her cousin's wife, and that she would go to the play and visit the new conjurer's

entertainment, but that she would be in the same city both with Adolphus Crosbie and with John Eames. Not

having personal experience of the wideness of London, and of the wilderness which it isof the distance

which is set there between persons who are not purposely brought togetherit seemed to her fancy as though

for this month of her absence from home she would be brought into close contiguity with both her lovers. She

had hitherto felt herself to be at any rate safe in her fortress at Allington. When Crosbie had written to her

mother, making a renewed offer which had been rejected, Lily had felt that she certainly need not see him

unless it pleased her to do so. He could hardly force himself upon her at Allington. And as to John Eames,

though he would, of course, be welcome at Allington as often as he pleased to show himself, still there was a

security in the place. She was so much at home there that she could always be the mistress of the occasion.

She knew that she could talk to him at Allington as though from ground higher than that on which he stood

himself; but she felt that this would hardly be the case if she should chance to meet him in London. Crosbie

probably would not come in her way. Crosbie, she thoughtand she blushed for the man she loved, as the

idea came across her mindwould be afraid of meeting her uncle. But John Eames would certainly find her;

and she was led by the experience of latter days to image that John would never cross her path without

But she said no word of this, even to her mother. She was contented to confine her outspoken expectations to

Emily Dunstable, and the play, and the conjurer. 'The chances are ten to one against my liking her, mamma,'

'I feel to be too old to think that I shall ever like any more new people. Three years ago I should have been

quite sure that I should love a new cousin. It would have been like having a new dress. But I've come to think

that an old dress is the most comfortable, and an old cousin certainly the best.'

The squire had taken for them a gloomy lodging in Sackville Street. Lodgings in London are always gloomy.

Gloomy colours wear better than bright ones for curtains and carpets, and the keepers of lodgings in London

seem to think that a certain dinginess of appearance is respectable. I never saw a London lodging in which

any attempt at cheerfulness had been made, and I do not think that any such attempt, if made, would pay. The

lodgingseeker would be frightened and dismayed, and would unconsciously be led to fancy that something

was wrong. Ideas of burglars and improper persons would present themselves. This is so certainly the case

that I doubt whether any wellconditioned lodginghouse matron could be induced to show rooms that were

prettily draped or pleasantly coloured. The big drawingroom and two large bedrooms which the squire took

were all that was proper, and were as brown, and as gloomy, and as illsuited for the comforts of ordinary

life as though they had been prepared for two prisoners. But Lily was not so ignorant as to expect cheerful

lodgings in London, and was satisfied. 'And what are we to do now?' said Lily, as soon as they found

themselves settled. It was still March, and whatever may have been the nature of the weather at Allington, it

was very cold in London. They reached Sackville Street about five in the evening, and an hour was taken up

in unpacking their trunks and making themselves as comfortable as their circumstances allowed. 'And now

'And what after that? Won't Bernard come to us tonight? I expected him to be standing on the doorsteps

'I don't suppose Bernard will be here tonight,' said the squire. 'He did not say that he would, and as for Miss

'But I wanted to see her tonight. Well;of course bridesmaids must wait upon brides. And ladies with

twenty thousand pounds can't be expected to run about like common people. As for Bernardbut Bernard

never was in a hurry.' Then they dined, and when the squire had very nearly fallen asleep over a bottle of port

wine which had been sent in for him from some neighbouring publichouse, Lily began to feel that it was

very dull. And she looked round the room, and she though that it was very ugly. And she calculated that

thirty evenings so spent would seem to be very long. And she reflected that the hours were probably going

much more quickly with Emily Dunstable, who, no doubt, at this moment had Bernard Dale by her side. And

then she told herself that the hours were not tedious with her at home, while sitting with her mother, with all

her daily occupations within her reach. But in so telling herself she took herself to task, inquiring of herself

whether such an assurance was altogether true. Were not the hours sometimes tedious even at home? And in

this way her mind wandered off to thoughts upon life in general, and she repeated to herself over and over

again the two words which she had told John Eames that she would write in her journal. The reader will

remember those two wordsOld Maid. And she had written them in her book, making each letter a capital,

and round them she had drawn a scroll, ornamented after her own fashion, and she had added the date in

quaintly formed figuresfor in such matters Lily had some little skill and a dash of fun to direct it; and she

had inscribed below it an Italian motto:'Who goes softly, goes safely'; and above her work of art she had

put a headingAs arranged fate for L.D.' Now she thought of all this, and reflected whether Emily

Dunstable was in truth very happy. Presently the tears came into her eyes, and she got up and went to the

window, as though she were afraid that her uncle might wake and see them. And as she looked out on the

blank street, she muttered a word or two'Dear mother! Dearest mother!' Then the door was opened, and her

cousin Bernard announced himself. She had not heard his knock at the door as she had been thinking of the

'What; Bernard!ah, yes, of course,' said the squire, rubbing his eyes as he strove to wake himself. 'I wasn't

sure you would come, but I'm delighted to see you. I wish you joy with all my heartwith all my heart.'

'Of course, I should come,' said Bernard. 'Dear Lily, this is so good of you. Emily is so delighted.' Then Lily

spoke her congratulations warmly, and there was no trace of a tear in her eyes, and she was thoroughly happy

as she sat by her cousin's side, and listened to his raptures about Emily Dunstable. 'And you will be so fond of

'Frightfully rich,' said Bernard; 'but really you would hardly find it out if nobody told you. Of course she lives

Then there came another knock at the door, and who should enter the room but John Eames. Lily for a

moment was taken aback, but it was only for a moment. She had been thinking so much of him that his

presence disturbed her for an instant. 'He probably will not know that I am here,' she had said to herself; but

she had not yet been three hours in London, and he was already with her! At first he hardly spoke to her,

addressing himself to the squire. 'Lady Julia told me you were to be here, and as I start for the Continent early

'I'm always glad to see you, John,' said the squire'very glad. And so you are going abroad, are you?'

Then Johnny congratulated his old acquaintance, Bernard Dale, as to his coming marriage, and explained to

them how Lady Julia in one of her letters had told him all about it, and had even given him the number in

Sackville Street. 'I suppose she learned it from you, Lily,' said the squire. 'Yes uncle, she did.' And then there

came questions as to John's projected journey to the Continent, and he explained that he was going on

lawbusiness, on behalf of Mr Crawley, to catch the dean and Mrs Arabin, if it might be possible. 'You see,

sir, Mr Toogood, who is Mr Crawley's cousin, and also his lawyer, is my cousin too; and that's why I'm

Then Johnny had to explain, and in doing so he became very eloquent as to the hardships of Mr Crawley's

case. 'You see, sir, nobody can possibly believe that such a man as that stole twenty pounds.'

'I'm quite sure he didn't,' said Johnny, warming to his subject. 'It couldn't be that such a man as that should

'It's the general opinion down in Barsetshire that he did steal it,' said Bernard. 'Dr Thorne was one of the

'Of course you'll laugh at me, sir; but you'll see that we shall come out right. There's some mystery in it of

which we haven't got at the bottom as yet; and if there is anybody that can help us it is the dean.'

'If the dean knows anything, why has he not written and told what he knows?' said the squire.

'That's what I can't say. The dean has not had an opportunity of writing since he heardeven if he has yet

heardthat Mr Crawley is to be tried. And then he and Mrs Arabin are not together. It's a long story, and I

will not trouble you with it all; but at any rate I'm going off tomorrow. Lily, can I do anything for you in

'In Florence?' said Lily; 'and are you really going to Florence? How I envy you.'

'Well;as to my expenses, they are to be paid by a person who won't raise any unpleasant questions about

'I'm going to have a trip for my own fun,' said Johnny, 'and I shall pick up evidence on the road, as I'm

Then Lily began to take an active part in the conversation, and a great deal was said about Mr Crawley, and

about Grace, and Lily declared that she would be very anxious to hear any news which John Eames might be

able to send. 'You know, John, how fond we are of your cousin Grace, at Allington? Are we not, uncle?'

'If you should be able to learn anything that may be of use, John, how happy you will be.'

'And I think it's so good of you to go, John. But it is just like you. You were always generous.' Soon after that

he got up and went. It was very clear to him that he would have no moment in which to say a word alone to

Lily; and if he could find such a moment, what good would such a word do him? It was as yet but a few

weeks since she had positively refused him. And he too remembered very well those two words which she

had told him she would write in her book. As he had been coming to the house he had told himself that his

coming would becould be of no use. And yet he was disappointed with the result of his visit, although she

'I shall be back long before that, I hope,' said Johnny. 'Goodbye, sir. Goodbye, Dale. Goodbye, Lily.' And

'Goodbye, John.' And then she added, almost in a whisper. 'I think you are very, very right to go.' How

could he fail after that to hope as he walked home that she might still relent. And she also thought much of

him, but her thoughts of him made her cling more firmly than ever to those two words. She could not bring

herself to marry him; but, at least, she would not break his heart by becoming the wife of anyone else. Soon

after this Bernard Dale went also. I am not sure that he had been well pleased at seeing John Eames become

suddenly the hero of the hour. When a young man is going to perform so important an act as marriage he is

apt to think that he ought to be the hero of the hour himselfat any rate among his own family.

Early on the next morning Lily was taken by her uncle to call upon Mrs Thorne, and to see Emily Dunstable.

Bernard was to meet them there, but it had been arranged that they should reach the house first. 'There is

nothing so absurd as these introductions,' Bernard had said. 'You go and look at her, and when you've had

time to look at her, then I'll come!' So the squire and Lily went off to look at Emily Dunstable.

'You don't mean to say that she lives in that house?' said Lily, when the cab was stopped before an enormous

'I never shall be able to speak to anybody living in such a house as that,' said Lily. 'A duke couldn't have

'Mrs Thorne is richer than half the dukes,' said the squire. Then the door was opened by a porter, and Lily

found herself within the hall. Everything was very great, and very magnificent, and, as she thought, very

uncomfortable. Presently she heard a loud jovial voice on the stairs. 'Mr Dale, I'm delighted to see you. And

this is your niece Lily. Come up, my dear. There is a young woman upstairs dying to embrace you. Never

mind the umbrella. Put it down anywhere. I want to have a look at you, because Bernard swears that you're so

pretty.' This was Mrs Thorne, once Miss Dunstable, the richest woman in England, and the aunt of Bernard's

bride. The reader may perhaps remember the advice which she once gave to Major Grantly, and her

enthusiasm on that occasion. 'There she is, Mr Dale; what do you think of her?' said Mrs Thorne as she

opened the door of a small sittingroom wedged in between two large saloons, in which Emily Dunstable

'I suppose it is ridiculous to ask the question to which one really wants to have an answer,' said Mrs Thorne.

'But Mr Dale has, in truth, come to inspect you, and to form an opinion; and, in honest truth, I shall be very

The old man took the girl in his arms, and kissed her on both cheeks. 'I have no doubt you will find out what I

'I generally do find out what people think,' she said. 'And so you're Lily Dale?'

'I have so often heard of you, particularly of late; for you must know that a certain Major Grantly is a friend

'I hope it will.' Then Lily turned to Emily Dunstable, and, taking her hand, went up and sat beside her, while

Mrs Thorne and the squire talked of the coming marriage. 'How long have you been engaged?' said Lily.

'Really engaged about three weeks. I think it is not more than three weeks ago.'

'How very discreet Bernard has been. He never said a word about it while it was going on.'

'And so do we. You know he's almost a brother to us; that is, to me and my sister. We never had a brother of

our own.' And so the morning was passed till Lily was told by her uncle to come away, and was told also by

Mrs Thorne that she was to dine with them in the square on that day. 'You must not be surprised that my

husband is not here,' she said. 'He's a very odd sort of man, and he never comes to London if he can help it.'

Eames had by no means done his work for that evening when he left Mr Dale and Lily at their lodgings. He

had other business in hand to which he had promised to give attention, and another person to see who would

welcome his coming quite as warmly, though by no means as pleasantly, as Lily Dale. It was then just nine

o'clock, and as he had told Miss DemolinesMadalina we may as well call her nowthat he would be in

Porchester Terrace by nine at the latest, it was incumbent on him to make haste. He got into a cab, and bid the

cabman drive hard, and lighting a cigar, began to inquire of himself over and over again whether it was well

for him to hurry away from the presence of Lily Dale to that of Madalina Demolines. He felt that he was

halfashamed of what he was doing. Though he declared to himself over and over again that he never had

said a word, and never intended to say a word, to Madalina, which all the world might not hear, yet he knew

that he was doing amiss. He was doing amiss, and half repented it, and he was half proud of it. He was most

anxious to be able to give himself credit for his constancy to Lily Dale; to be able to feel that he was steadfast

in his passion; and yet he liked the idea of amusing himself with his Bayswater romance, as he would call it,

and was not without something of conceit as he thought of the progress he had made in it. 'Love is one thing

and amusement is another,' he said to himself as he puffed the cigar smoke out of his mouth; and in his heart

he was proud of his own capacity for enjoyment. He thought it a fine thing, although at the same moment he

knew it to be an evil thingthis hurrying away from the young lady whom he really loved to another as to

whom he thought it very likely that he should be called upon to pretend to love her. And he sang a little song

as he went, 'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be.' That was intended to apply to Lily, and was

used as an excuse for his fickleness in going to Miss Demolines. And he was perhaps, too, a little conceited

as to his mission to the Continent. Lily had told him that he was very glad that he was going; that she thought

him very right to go. The words had been very pleasant to his ears, and Lily had never looked prettier in his

eyes than when she had spoken them. Johnny, therefore, was rather proud of himself as he sat in the cab

smoking his cigar. He had, moreover, beaten his old enemy Sir Raffle Buffle in another contest, and he felt

that the world was smiling on him;that the world was smiling on him in spite of his cruel fate in the matter

There was a mystery about the Bayswater romance which was not without its allurement, and a portion of the

mystery was connected with Madalina's mother. Lady Demolines was very rarely seen, and John Eames

could not quite understand what was the manner of life of that unfortunate lady. Her daughter usually spoke

of her with affectionate regret as being unable to appear on that particular occasion on account of some

passing malady. She was suffering from a nervous headache, or was afflicted with bronchitis, or had been

touched with rheumatism, so that she was seldom on the scene when Johnny was passing his time at

Porchester Terrace. And yet he heard of her dining out, and going to plays and operas; and when he did

chance to see her, he found that she was a sprightly old woman enough. I will not venture to say that he much

regretted the absence of Lady Demolines, or that he was keenly alive to the impropriety of being left alone

with the gentle Madalina; but the customary absence of the elder lady was an incident in the romance which

Madalina was alone when he was shown upon into the drawingroom on the evening of which we are

'Mr Eames,' she said, 'will you kindly look at that watch which is lying on the table.' She looked full at him

with her great eyes wide open, and the tone of her voice was intended to show him that she was aggrieved.

'Yes, I see it,' said John, looking down on Miss Demolines' little gold Geneva watch, with which he had

already made sufficient acquaintance to know that it was worth nothing. 'Shall I give it you?'

'No, Mr Eames; let it remain there, that it may remind me, if it does not remind you, by how long a time you

'I was obliged to go and see a friend who has just come to town from my part of the country.'

'That is the friend, I suppose, of whom I have heard from Maria.' It is to be feared that Conway Dalrymple

had not been so guarded as he should have been in some of his conversations with Mrs Dobbs Broughton,

and that a word or two had escaped from him as to the love of John Eames for Lily Dale.

'I don't know what you may have heard,' said Johnny, 'but I was obliged to see these people before I left town.

He did not wish to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale. He did not choose to disown the imputation, or to

'Silence gives consent,' she said. 'If it be so, I congratulate you. I have no doubt she is the most charming

young woman. It is about seven years, I believe, since that little affair with Mr Crosbie, and therefore that, I

'It is only three years,' said Johnny, angrily. 'Besides, I don't know what that has to do with it.'

'You need not be ashamed,' said Madalina. 'I have heard how well you behaved on that occasion. You were

quite the preux chevalier; and if any gentleman ever deserved well of a lady you deserved well of her. I

wonder how Mr Crosbie felt when he met you the other day at Maria's. I had not heard anything about it then,

'I daresay not; but I saw him shake hands with you. And so Lily Dale has come to town.'

After that there was a pause in the conversation. Eames was sick of it, and was very anxious to change the

conversation. Miss Demolines was sitting in the shadow, away from the light, with her face half hidden by

her hands. At last she jumped up, and came round and stood opposite to him. 'I charge you to tell me truly,

John Eames,' she said, 'whether Miss Lilian Dale is engaged to you as your future wife?' He looked up in to

her face, but made no immediate answer. Then she repeated her demand. 'I ask you whether you are engaged

'What makes me ask you? Do you deny my right to feel so much interest in you as to desire to know whether

'I don't see any cowardice in the matter. One does not talk about that kind of thing to everybody.'

'Upon my word, Mr Eames, you are complimentary;indeed you are. To everybody! I am everybodyam

I? That is your idea offriendship! You may be sure that after that I shall ask no further questions.'

'In what way did you mean it, sir? Everybody! Mr Eames, you must excuse me if I say that I am not well

enough this evening to bear the company ofeverybody. I think you had better leave me. I think that you

'Yes, I amvery angry. Because I have condescended to feel an interest in your welfare, and have asked you

a question which I thought that our intimacy justified, you tell me that that is a kind of thing that you will not

talk about toeverybody. I beg you to understand that I will not be your everybody. Mr Eames, there is the

Things had now become very serious. Hitherto Johnny had been seated comfortably in the corner of a sofa,

and had not found himself bound to move, though Miss Demolines was standing before him. But now it was

absolutely necessary that he should do something. He must either go, or else he must make entreaty to be

allowed to remain. Would it not be expedient that he should take the lady at her word and escape? She was

still pointing to the door, and the way was open to him. If he were to walk out now of course he would never

return, and there would be the end of the Bayswater romance. If he remained it might be that the romance

would become troublesome. He got up from his seat, and had almost resolved that he would go. Had she not

somewhat relaxed the majesty of her anger as he rose, had the fire of her eye not been somewhat quenched

and the lines of her mouth softened, I think that he would have gone. The romance would have been over, and

he would have felt it had come to an inglorious end; but it would have been well for him that he should have

gone. Though the fire was somewhat quenched and the lines were somewhat softened, she was still pointing

'I do not know what you mean by everything. It is a very little everything to you, I should say. I do not quite

'But before I go, you must permit me to excuse myself. I did not intend to offend you. I merely meant'

'You merely meant! Give me an honest answer to a downright question. Are you engaged to Miss Lilian

'Do you think that I would tell you a falsehood about it? What I meant was that it is a kind of thing that one

doesn't like talking about, merely because stories are bandied about. People are so fond of saying that this

man is engaged to that woman, and of making up tales; and it seems so foolish to contradict such things.'

He had taken up his hat when he had risen from the sofa, and was still standing with it ready in his hand. He

was even now halfminded to escape; and the name of Lily Dale in Miss Demoline's mouth was so

distasteful to him that he would have done sohe would have gone in sheer disgust, had she not stood in his

way, so that he could not escape without moving her, or going round behind the sofa. She did not stir to make

way for him, and it may be that she understood that he was her prisoner, in spite of her late command to him

to go. It may be, also, that she understood his vexation and the cause of it, and that she saw the expediency of

leaving Lily Dale alone for the present. At any rate, she pressed him no more upon the matter. 'Are we to be

'There is my hand, then.' So Johnny took her hand and pressed it, and held it for a little whilejust long

enough to seem to give a meaning to the action. 'You will get to understand me some day,' she said, 'and will

learn that I do not like to be reckoned among the everybodies by those for whom I reallyreallyreally

'And I meant it toofor the minute. Only thinksupposing you had gone! We should never have seen each

'Does it not? Just a little "yes" or "no". A "no" is said when a "yes" is meant, and then there comes no second

chance, and what a change that may be from bright hopes to desolation! Or, worse again, a "yes" is said when

a "no" should be saidwhen the speaker knows that it should be "no". What a difference that "no" makes!

When one thinks of it, one wonders that a woman should ever say anything but "no".'

'What would you give to know? But I will tell you frankly;yes. And onceonce I thought that my answer

'When the moment came I could not bring myself to say the word that should rob me of my liberty for ever. I

had said "no" to him often enough beforepoor fellow; and on this occasion, he told me that he had asked

me for the last time. "I shall not give myself another chance," he said, "for I shall be on board ship within a

week." I merely bade him goodbye. It was the only answer I gave him. He understood me, and since that

'PerhapsI did notlove him,' said Miss Demolines, thoughtfully. She was now again seated in her chair,

and John Eames had gone back to his corner of the sofa. 'If I had really loved him, I suppose it would have

been otherwise. He was a gallant fellow, and had two thousand a year of his own, in India stock and other

'He wrote me a word to say that he would never marry till I was marriedbut that on the day that he should

hear of my wedding, he would go to the first single woman near him and propose. It was a droll thing to say;

'He would find plenty to accept him. Besides being so well off he was a very handsome fellow, and is

'It was my destiny, I suppose; I daresay I was wrong. Other girls marry without violent love, and do very well

The name of Maria Clutterbuck had become odious to John Eames. As long as Miss Demolines would

continue to talk about herself he could listen with some amount of gratification. Conversation on that subject

was the natural progress of the Bayswater romance. And if Madalina would only call her friend by her

present name, he had no strong objection to an occasional mention of the lady; but the combined names of

Maria Clutterbuck had come to be absolutely distasteful to him. He did not believe in the Maria Clutterbuck

friendshipeither in its past or present existence, as described by Madalina. Indeed, he did not put strong

faith in anything that Madalina said to him. In the handsome gentleman with two thousand a year, he did not

believe at all. But the handsome gentleman had only been mentioned once in the course of his acquaintance

with Miss Demolines, whereas Maria Clutterbuck had come up so often! 'Upon my word I must wish you

goodbye,' he said. 'It is going for eleven o'clock, and I have to start tomorrow at seven.'

'Go, then;go and get your sleep. What a sleepyhead generation it is.' Johnny longed to ask whether the

last generation was less sleepyheaded, and whether the gentleman with two thousand a year sat up talking

all night before he pressed his foot for the last time on his native soil; but he did not dare. As he said to

himself afterwards, 'It would not do to bring the Bayswater romance too suddenly to termination!' 'But before

you go,' she continued, 'I must say the word to you about that picture. Did you speak to Mr Dalrymple?'

'I did not. I have been so busy with different things that I have not seen him.'

'Wellto tell the truth, I think I shall see him tonight, in spite of my being so sleepyheaded. I wrote him a

line that I would look in and smoke a cigar with him if he chanced to be at home!'

'And that is why you want to go. A gentleman cannot live without his cigar now.'

'Go thenand make your friend understand that if he continues this picture of his, he will bring himself to

great trouble, and will probably ruin the woman for whom he professes, I presume, to feel something like

'Never mind. You need not look at me like that. It was not I. Do you suppose that secrets can be kept when so

'Do you think she has told Mrs Broughton? I am sure she has not. I may say that I know she has not. Maria

'I am not going to flatter you, Mr Eames. Mamma will be well by that time, I hope, and I do not mind telling

you that you are a favourite with her.' Johnny thought that this was particularly kind, as he had seen so very

little of the old lady. 'If you choose to call upon her,' said Madalina, 'of course she will be glad to see you.'

'But I was speaking of yourself, you know?' and Johnny permitted himself for a moment to look tenderly at

'Then from myself pray understand that I will say nothing to flatter your selflove.'

'I think I have been quite kind enough. As you observed yourself just now, it is nearly eleven o'clock, and I

'And you will be glad to see me when I am back? Tell that you will be glad to see me.'

'I will tell you nothing of the kind. Mr Eames, if you do, I will be very angry with you.' And then he went.

On his way back to his own lodgings he did call on Conway Dalrymple, and in spite of his need for early

rising, sat smoking with the artist for an hour. 'If you don't take care, young man,' said his friend, 'you will

'As you walk away from Porchester Terrace some fine day, you will have to congratulate yourself on having

'Other men as wise as you have done the same sought of thing. Miss Demolines is very clever, and I daresay

'It isn't so much that she's clever, and I can hardly say that it is amusing. One gets awfully tired of it, you

know. But a fellow must have something to do, and that is as good as anything else.'

'I suppose you have not heard that one young man levanted last year to save himself from a breach of promise

'Whatever little he chose to save, and I think that I heard that he went to Canada. His name was Shorter; and

they say that, on the eve of his going, Madalina sent him word that she had no objection to the colonies, and

that, under the pressing emergency of his expatriation, she was willing to become Mrs Shorter with more

expedition than usually attends fashionable weddings. Shorter, however, escaped, and has never been seen

Eames declared that he did not believe a word of it. Nevertheless, as he walked home he came to the

conclusion that if Mr Shorter must have been the handsome gentleman with Indian securities, to whom 'no'

While sitting with Conway Dalrymple, he had forgotten to say a word about Jael and Sisera.

Intimation had been sent from the palace to Dr Tempest of Silverbridge of the bishop's intention that a

commission should be held by him, as rural dean, with other neighbouring clergymen, as assessors with him,

that inquiry might be made on the part of the Church into the question of Mr Crawley's guilt. It must be

understood that by this time the opinion had become very general that Mr Crawley had been guiltythat he

had found the cheque in his house, and that he had, after holding it for many months, succumbed to

temptation, and applied it to his own purposes. But various excuses were made for him by those who so

believed. In the first place it was felt by all who really knew anything of the man's character, that the very

fact of his committing such a crime proved him to be hardly responsible for his actions. He must have known,

had not all judgment in such matters been taken from him, that the cheque would certainly be traced back to

his hands. No attempt had been made in the disposing of it to dispose of it in such a way that the trace should

be obliterated. He had simply given it to a neighbour with a direction to have it cashed, and had written his

own name on the back of it. And therefore, though there could be no doubt as to the theft in the mind of those

who supposed that he had found the cheque in his own house, yet the guilt of the theft seemed to be almost

annihilated by the folly of the thief. And then his poverty, and his struggles, and the sufferings of his wife,

were remembered; and stories were told from mouth to mouth of his industry in his profession, of his great

zeal among the brickmakers of Hoggle End, of acts of charity done by him which startled the people of the

district into admiration:how he had worked with his own hands for the sick poor to whom he could not

give relief in money, turning a woman's mangle for a couple of hours, and carrying a boy's load along the

lanes. Dr Tempest and others declared that he had derogated from the dignity of his position as an English

parish clergyman by such acts; but, nevertheless, the stories of these deeds acted strongly on the minds of

both men and women, creating an admiration for Mr Crawley which was much stronger than the

Even Mrs Walker and her daughter, and the Miss Prettymans, had so far given way that they had ceased to

asseverate their belief in Mr Crawley's innocence. They contented themselves with simply expressing a hope

that he would be acquitted by a jury, and that when he should be so acquitted the thing might be allowed to

rest. If he had sinned, no doubt he had repented. And then there were serious debates whether he might not

have stolen the money without much sin, being mad or halfmadtouched with madness when he took it;

and whether he might not, in spite of such temporary touch of madness, be well fitted for his parish duties.

Sorrow had afflicted him grievously; but that sorrow, though it had incapacitated him for the management of

his own affairs, had not rendered him unfit for the ministration of his parish. Such were the arguments now

used in his favour by the women around him; and the men were not keen to contradict them. The wish that he

When therefore it became known that the bishop had decided to put on foot another investigation, with the

view of bringing Mr Crawley's conduct under ecclesiastical condemnation, almost everybody accused the

bishop of persecution. The world of the diocese declared that Mrs Proudie was at work, and that the bishop

himself was no better than a puppet. It was in vain that certain clear headed men among the clergy, of whom

Dr Tempest himself was one, pointed out that the bishop after all might perhaps be right;that if Mr

Crawley were guilty, and if he should be found to have been so by a jury, it might be absolutely necessary

that an ecclesiastical court should take some cognizance of the crime beyond that of taken by the civil law.

'The jury,' said Dr Tempest, discussing the case with Mr Robarts and other clerical neighbours'the jury

may probably find him guilty and recommend to him mercy. The judge will have heard his character, and

will have been made acquainted with the manner of his life, and will deal as lightly with the case as the law

will allow him. For aught I know he may be imprisoned for a month. I wish it might be for no more than a

dayor an hour. But when he comes out from his month's imprisonmenthow then? Surely it should be a

case for ecclesiastical inquiry, whether a clergyman who has committed a theft should be allowed to go into

his pulpit directly he comes out of prison?' But the answer to this was that Mr Crawley had always been a

good clergyman, was a good clergyman at this moment, and would be a good clergyman when he did come

But Dr Tempest, though he had argued in this way, was by no means eager for the commencement of the

commission over which he was to be called upon to preside. In spite of such arguments as the above, which

came from the man's head when his head was brought to bear on the matter, there was a thorough desire

within his heart to oppose the bishop. He had no strong sympathy with Mr Crawley, as had others. He would

have had Mr Crawley silenced without regret, presuming Mr Crawley to be guilty. But he had a much

stronger feeling with regard to the bishop. Had there been any question of silencing the bishopcould it

have been possible to take steps in that directionhe would have been very active. It may therefore be

understood that in spite of his defence of the bishop's present proceedings as to the commission, he was

anxious that the bishop should fail, and anxious to put impediments in the bishop's way, should it appear to

him that he could do so with justice. Dr Tempest was well known among his parishioners to be hard and

unsympathetic, some said unfeeling also, and cruel; but it was admitted by those who disliked him the most

that he was both practical and just, and that he cared for the welfare of many, though he was rarely touched

by the misery of one. Such was the man who was rector of Silverbridge and rural dean in the district, and who

was now called upon by the bishop to assist him in making further inquiry as to this wretched cheque for

Once at this period Archdeacon Grantly and Dr Tempest met each other and discussed the question of Mr

Crawley's guilt. Both these men were inimical to the present bishop of the diocese, and both had perhaps

respected the old bishop beyond all other men. But they were different in this, that the archdeacon hated Dr

Proudie as a partisanwhereas Dr Tempest opposed the bishop on certain principles which he endeavoured

to make clear, at any rate to himself. 'Wrong!' said the archdeacon, speaking of the bishop's intention of

issuing a commission'of course he's wrong. How could anything right come from him or from her? I

'One cannot be hard upon him,' said the archdeacon. 'He is so scandalously weak, and she is so radically

vicious, that they cannot but be wrong together. The very fact that such a man should be a bishop among us is

'You are more impulsive than I am,' said Dr Tempest. 'In this case I am sorry for the poor man, who, I am

sure, honest in the main. But I believe that in such a case your father would have done just what the present

bishop is doing;that he could have done nothing else; and as I think that Dr Proudie is right I shall do all

The bishop's secretary had written to Dr Tempest, telling him of the bishop's purpose; and now, in one of the

last days in March, the bishop himself wrote to Dr Tempest, asking him to come over to the palace. The letter

was worded most courteously, and expressed very feelingly the great regret which the writer felt at being

obliged to take these proceedings against a clergyman in his diocese. Bishop Proudie knew how to write such

a letter. By the writing of such letters, and by the making of speeches in the same strain, he had become

Bishop of Barchester. Now, in this letter, he begged Dr Tempest to come over to him, saying how delighted

Mrs Proudie would be to see him at the palace. Then he went on to explain the great difficulty which he felt,

and great sorrow also, in dealing with this matter of Mr Crawley. He looked, therefore, confidently for Dr

Tempest's assistance. Thinking to do the best for Mr Crawley, and anxious to enable Mr Crawley to remain in

quiet retirement till the trial should be over, he had sent a clergyman over to Hogglestock, who would have

relieved Mr Crawley from the burden of the churchservices;but Mr Crawley would have none of this

relief. Mr Crawley had been obstinate and overbearing, and had persisted in claiming his right to his own

pulpit. Therefore was the bishop obliged to interfere legally, and therefore was he under the necessity of

asking Dr Tempest to assist him. Would Dr Tempest come over on the Monday, and stay till Wednesday?

The letter was a very good letter, and Dr Tempest was obliged to do as he was asked. He so far modified the

bishop's proposition that he reduced the sojourn at the palace by one night. He wrote to say that he would

have the pleasure of dining with the bishop and Mrs Proudie on the Monday, but would return home on the

Tuesday, as soon as the business in hand would permit him. 'I shall get on very well with him,' he said to his

wife, before he started; 'but I am afraid of the woman. If she interferes there will be a row.' 'Then, my dear,'

said his wife, 'there will be a row, for I am told that she always interferes.' On reaching the palace

halfanhour before dinnertime, Dr Tempest found that other guests were expected, and on descending to

the great yellow drawingroom, which was used only on state occasions, he encountered Mrs Proudie, and

two of her daughters arrayed in full panoply of female armour. She received him with her sweetest smiles,

and if there had been any former enmity between Silverbridge and the palace, it was now all forgotten. She

regretted greatly that Mrs Tempest had not accompanied the doctor;for Mrs Tempest also had been invited.

But Mrs Tempest was not quite as well as she might have been, the doctor had said, and very rarely slept

away from home. And then the bishop came in and greeted his guest with his pleasantest good humour. It was

quite a sorrow to him that Silverbridge was so distant, and that he saw so little of Dr Tempest; but he hoped

that that might be somewhat mended now, and that leisure might be found for social delights;to all which

Dr Tempest said but little, bowing to the bishop at each separate expression of his lordship's kindness.

There were guests there that evening who did not often sit at the bishop's table. The archdeacon and Mrs

Grantly had been summoned from Plumstead, and had obeyed the summons. Great as was the enmity

between the bishop and the archdeacon, it had never quite taken the form of open palpable hostility. Each,

therefore, asked the other to dinner perhaps once every year; and each went to the other, perhaps, once in two

years. And Dr Thorne from Chaldicotes was there but without his wife, who in these days was up in London.

Mrs Proudie always expressed a warm friendship for Mrs Thorne, and on this occasion loudly regretted her

absence. 'You must tell her, Dr Thorne, how exceedingly much we miss her.' Dr Thorne, who was

accustomed to hear his wife speak of her dear friend Mrs Proudie with almost unmeasured ridicule, promised

that he would do so. 'We are sorry the Lufton's couldn't come to us,' said Mrs Proudienot alluding to the

dowager, of whom it was well known that no earthly inducement would have sufficed to make her put her

foot within Mrs Proudie's room'but one of the children is ill, and she couldn't leave him.' But the Greshams

were there from Boxall Hill, and the Thornes from Ullathorne, and, with the exception of a single chaplain,

who pretended to carve, Dr Tempest and the archdeacon were the only clerical guests at the table. From all

which Dr Temple knew that the bishop was anxious to treat him with special consideration on the present

The dinner was rather long and ponderous, and occasionally, most dull. The archdeacon talked a good deal,

but a bystander with an acute ear might have understood from the tone of his voice that he was not talking as

he would have talked among friends. Mrs Proudie felt this, and understood it, and was angry. She could never

find herself in the presence of the archdeacon without becoming angry. Her accurate ear would always

appreciate the defiance of episcopal authority, as now existing in Barchester, which was concealed, or only

half concealed, by all the archdeacon's words. But the bishop was not so keen, nor so easily roused, to wrath;

and though the presence of the enemy did to a certain degree cow him, he strove to fight against the feeling

'You have improved so upon the old days,' said the archdeacon, speaking of some small matter with reference

'We have improved, Dr Grantly,' said Mrs Proudie, with great emphasis on her words. 'What you say is true.

'Not a doubt about that,' said the archdeacon. Then Mrs Grantly interposed, strove to change the subject, and

'Talking of improvements,' said Mrs Grantly, 'what an excellent row of houses they have built at the bottom

'And now they're asking seventy pounds apiece for houses which did not cost above six hundred each to

build,' said Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, with that seeming dislike of modern success which is evinced by most

'Two have them have been already taken by clergymen,' said the bishop, in a tone of triumph.

'Yes,' said the archdeacon, 'and the houses in the Close which used to be the residences of the prebendaries

have been leased out to tallowchandlers and retired brewers. That comes of the working of the Ecclesiastical

'Why not, indeed, if you like to have tallowchandlers next door to you?' said the archdeacon. 'In the old

'There is nothing, Dr Grantly, so objectionable in a cathedral town as a lot of idle clergymen,' said Mrs

'It is beginning to be a question to me,' said the archdeacon, 'whether there is any use in clergymen at all for

'Dr Grantly, those cannot be your real sentiments,' said Mrs Proudie. Then Mrs Grantly, working hard in her

vocation as a peacemaker, changed the conversation again and began to talk of the American war. But even

that was made a matter of discord on church mattersthe archdeacon professing an opinion that the

Southerners were Christian gentlemen, and the Northerners idle snobs; whereas Mrs Proudie had an idea that

the Gospel was preached with genuine zeal in the Northern States. And at each such outbreak the poor bishop

would laugh uneasily, and say a word or two to which no one paid much attention. And so the dinner went

on, not always in the most pleasant manner for those who preferred continued goodhumour to the

Not a word was said about Mr Crawley. When Mrs Proudie and the ladies left the diningroom, the bishop

strove to get up a little lay conversation. He spoke to Mr Thorne about his game, and to Dr Thorne about his

timber, and even to Mr Gresham about his hounds. 'It is not so very many years, Mr Gresham,' said he, 'since

the Bishop of Barchester was expected to keep hounds himself,' and the bishop laughed at his own joke.

'Your lordship shall have them back at the palace next season,' said young Frank Gresham, 'if you will

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the bishop. 'What do you say, Mr Tozer?' Mr Tozer was the chaplain on duty.

'I have not least objection in the world, my lord,' said Mr Tozer, 'to act as second whip.'

'I'm afraid you'll find them an expensive adjunct to the episcopate,' said the archdeacon. And then the joke

was over; for there had been a rumour, now for some years prevalent in Barchester, that Bishop Proudie was

not liberal in his expenditure. As Mr Thorne said afterwards to his cousin the doctor, the archdeacon might

have spared that sneer. 'The archdeacon will never spare the man who sits in his father's seat,' said the doctor.

'The pity of it is that men who are so thoroughly different in all their sympathies should ever be brought into

contact.' 'Dear, dear,' said the archdeacon, as he stood afterwards on the rug before the drawingroom fire,

'how many of rubbers of whist I have seen played in this room.' 'I sincerely hope that you will never see

another played here,' said Mrs Proudie. 'I'm quite sure that I shall not,' said the archdeacon. For this last sally

his wife scolded him bitterly on the way home. 'You know very well,' she said, 'that the times are changed,

and that if you were Bishop of Barchester yourself, you would not have whist played in the palace.' 'I only

know,' said he, 'that when we had the whist we had the true religion along with it, and some good sense and

good feeling also.' 'You cannot be right to sneer at others for doing what you would do yourself,' said his

wife. Then the archdeacon threw himself sulkily into the corner of his carriage, and nothing more was said

Not a word was spoken that night about Mr Crawley; and when that obnoxious guest from Plumstead was

gone, Mrs Proudie resumed her goodhumour towards Dr Tempest. So intent was she on conciliating him

that she refrained even from abusing the archdeacon, whom she knew to have been intimate for very many

years with the rector of Silverbridge. In her accustomed moods she would have broken forth in loud anger,

caring nothing for old friendships; but at present she was thoughtful of the morrow, and desirous that Dr

Tempest should, if possible, meet her in a friendly humour when the great discussion as to Hogglestock

should be opened between them. But Dr Tempest understood her bearing, and as he pulled on his nightcap

made certain resolutions of his own as to the morrow's proceedings. 'I don't suppose she will dare to

interfere,' he had said to his wife; 'but if she does I shall certainly tell the bishop that I cannot speak on the

At breakfast on the following morning there was no one present but the bishop, Mrs Proudie, and Dr

Tempest. Very little was said at the meal. Mr Crawley's name was not mentioned, but there seemed to be a

general feeling among them that there was a task hanging over them which prevented any general

conversation. The eggs were eaten and the coffee was drunk, but the eggs and the coffee disappeared almost

in silence. When these ceremonies had been altogether completed, and it was clearly necessary that

something further should be done, the bishop spoke: 'Dr Tempest,' he said, 'perhaps you will join me in my

study at eleven. We can then say a few words to each other about the unfortunate matter on which I shall

have to trouble you.' Dr Tempest said he would be punctual to his appointment, and then the bishop

withdrew, muttering something as to the necessity of looking at his letters. Dr Tempest took a newspaper in

his hand, which had been brought in by a servant, but Mrs Proudie did not allow him to read it. 'Dr Tempest,'

she said, 'this is a matter of most vital importance. I am quite sure that you feel that it is so.'

'This terrible affair of Mr Crawley's. If something is not done the whole diocese will be disgraced.' Then she

turned for an answer, but receiving none she was obliged to continue. 'Of the poor man's guilt there can, I

fear, be no doubt.' Then there was another pause, but still the doctor made no answer. 'And if he be guilty,'

said Mrs Proudie, resolving that she would ask a question that must bring forth some reply, 'can any

experienced clergyman think that he can be fit to preach from the pulpit of a parish church? I am sure that

'I think that we had better not do so. If I understand the bishop aright, he wishes it that I should take some

'Common conversation, Dr Tempest! I should be the last person in the world to make it a matter of common

conversation. I regard this as by no means a common conversation. God forbid that it should be a common

conversation. I am speaking very seriously with reference to the interests of the Church, which I think will be

endangered by having among her active servants a man who has been guilty of so base a crime as theft. Think

of it, Dr Tempest. Theft! Stealing money! Appropriating to his own use a cheque for twenty pounds which

did not belong to him! And then telling such terrible falsehoods about it! Can anything be worse, anything

more scandalous, anything more dangerous? Indeed, Dr Tempest, I do not regard this as any common

conversation.' The whole of this speech was not made at once, fluently, or without a break. From stop to stop

Mrs Proudie paused, waiting for her companion's words; but as he would not speak she was obliged to

'I am quite sure I will not discuss it with you,' said the doctor, very brusquely.

'Not with you, Mrs Proudie. You must excuse me for saying so, but I am not here to discuss any such matter

'All these things are in common between me and the bishop,' said Mrs Proudie, with an air that was intended

'As to that I know nothing, but they cannot be in common between you and me. It grieves me much that I

should have to speak to you in such a strain, but my duty allows me no alternative. I think, if you will permit

me, I will take a turn round the garden before I keep my appointment with his lordship.' And so saying he

It still wanted an hour to the time named by the bishop, and Dr Tempest used it in preparing for his

withdrawal from the palace as soon as his interview with the bishop should be over. After what had passed he

thought he would be justified in taking his departure without bidding adieu formally to Mrs Proudie. He

would say a word or two, explaining his haste, to the bishop; and then, if he could get out of the house at

once, it might be that he would never see Mrs Proudie again. He was rather proud of his success in their late

battle, but he felt that, having been so completely victorious, it would be foolish in him to risk his laurels in

the chance of another encounter. He would say not a word of what had happened to the bishop, and he

thought it probable that neither would Mrs Proudie speak of itat any rate till after he was gone. Generals

who are beaten out of the field are not quick to talk of their own repulses. He, indeed, had not beaten Mrs

Proudie out of the field. He had, in fact, himself run away. But he had left his foe silenced; and with such a

foe, and in such a contest, that was everything. He put up his portmanteau, therefore, and prepared for his

final retreat. Then he rang his bell and desired the servant to show him to the bishop's study. The servant did

so, and when he entered the room the first thing he saw was Mrs Proudie sitting in an armchair near the

window. The bishop was also in the room, sitting with his arms upon the writingtable, and his head upon his

hands. It was very evident that Mrs Proudie did not consider herself to have been beaten and that she was

prepared for another battle. 'Will you sit down, Dr Tempest?' she said, motioning him with her hand to a chair

opposite to that occupied by the bishop. Dr Tempest sat down. He felt that at the moment he had nothing else

to do, and that he must restrain any remonstrance that he might make till Mr Crawley's name should be

mentioned. He was almost lost in admiration of the woman. He had left her, as he thought, utterly vanquished

and prostrated by his determined but uncourteous usage of her; and here she was, present again on the field of

battle as though she had never been wounded. He could see that there had been words between her and the

bishop, and that she had carried a point on which the bishop had been very anxious to have his own way. He

could perceive at once that the bishop had begged her to absent herself and was greatly chagrined that he

should not have prevailed with her. There she wasand as Dr Tempest was resolved that he would neither

give advice nor receive instructions respecting Mr Crawley in her presence, he could only draw upon his

courage and his strategy for the coming warfare. For a few moments no one said a word. The bishop felt that

if Dr Tempest would only begin, the work on hand might be got through, even in his wife's presence. Mrs

Proudie was aware that her husband should begin. If he would do so, and if Dr Tempest would listen and then

reply, she might gradually make her way into the conversation; and if her words were once accepted then she

could say all that she desired to say; then she could play her part and become somebody in the episcopal

work. When once she should have been allowed liberty of speech, the enemy would be powerless to stop her.

But all this Dr Tempest understood quite as well as she understood it, and had they waited till night he would

The bishop sighed aloud. The sigh might be taken as expressing grief over the sin of an erring brother whose

conduct they were then to discuss, and was not amiss. But when the sigh with its attendant murmurs had

passed away it was necessary that some initiative step should be taken. 'Dr Tempest,' said the bishop, 'what

are we to do about this poor stiffnecked gentleman?' Still Dr Tempest did not speak. 'There is no clergyman

in the diocese,' continued the bishop, 'in whose prudence and wisdom I have more confidence than in yours.

And I know, too, that you are by no means disposed to severity where severe measures are not necessary.

What ought we to do? If he has been guilty, he should not surely return to his pulpit after the expiration of

Dr Tempest looked at Mrs Proudie, thinking that she might perhaps say a word now; but Mrs Proudie knew

her part better and was silent. Angry as she was, she contrived to hold her peace. Let the debate once begin

and she would be able to creep into it, and then to lead itand so she would hold her own. But she had met a

foe as wary as herself. 'My lord,' said the doctor, 'it will perhaps be well that you should communicate your

wishes to me in writing. If it be possible for me to comply with them I will do so.'

'Yes;exactly; no doubt;but I thought that perhaps we might better understand each other if we had a few

words of quiet conversation upon the subject. I believe you know the steps that I have'

But here the bishop was interrupted. Dr Tempest rose from his chair, and advancing to the table put both

hands upon it. 'My lord,' he said, 'I feel myself compelled to say that which I would very much rather leave

unsaid, were it possible. I feel the difficulty, and I may say delicacy, of my position; but I should be untrue to

my conscience and to my feeling of what is right in such matters, if I were take any part on a discussion on

'Dr Tempest, what is your objection?' said Mrs Proudie, rising from her chair, and coming also to the table, so

that from thence she might confront her opponent; and as she stood opposite to Dr Tempest she also put both

'My dear, perhaps you will leave us for a few moments,' said the bishop. Poor bishop! Poor weak bishop! As

the words came from his mouth he knew that they would be spoken in vain, and that if so, it would have been

'Why should I be dismissed from your room without a reason?' said Mrs Proudie. 'Cannot Dr Tempest

understand that a wife may share her husband's counselsas she must share his troubles? If he cannot, I pity

'Dr Tempest,' said the bishop, 'Mrs Proudie takes the greatest possible interest in everything concerning the

'I am sure, my lord,' said the doctor, 'that you will see how unseemly it would be that I should interfere in any

way between you and Mrs Proudie. I certainly will not do so. I can only say again that if you will

communicate with me your wishes in writing, I will attend to themif it be possible.'

'You mean to be stubborn,' said Mrs Proudie, whose prudence was beginning to give way under the great

'Yes, madam; if it is to be called stubbornness, I must be stubborn. My lord, Mrs Proudie spoke to me on this

subject in the breakfastroom after you had left it, and I then ventured to explain to her that in accordance

with such light as I have on the matter, I could not discuss it in her presence. I greatly grieve that I failed to

make myself understood by heras, otherwise, this unpleasantness might have been spared.'

'I understood you very well, Dr Tempest, and I think you to be a most unreasonable man. Indeed, I might use

'My dear, I really think you had better leave us for a few minutes,' said the bishop.

'No, my lordno,' said Mrs Proudie, turning round upon her husband. 'Not so. It would be most unbecoming

that I should be turned out of a room in this palace by an uncourteous word from a parish clergyman. It would

be unseemly. If Dr Tempest forgets his duty, I will not forget mine. There are other clergymen in the diocese

besides Dr Tempest who can undertake the very easy task of this commission. As for his having been

appointed rural dean I don't know how many years ago, it is matter of no consequence whatever. In such a

preliminary inquiry any three clergymen will suffice. It need not be done by the rural dean at all.'

'My lord,' said the doctor, 'you had better write to me as I proposed to you just now.'

'His lordship will not write. His lordship will do nothing of the kind,' said Mrs Proudie.

'My dear!' said the bishop, driven in his perplexity beyond all carefulness of reticence. 'My dear, I do wish

'But I will,' said Dr Tempest, feeling true compassion for the unfortunate man whom he saw writhing in

agony before him. 'It will manifestly be for the best that I should retire. My lord, I wish you good morning.

'A most stubborn and a most ungentlemanlike man,' said Mrs Proudie, as soon as the door was closed behind

the retreating rural dean. 'I do not think that in the whole course of my life I ever met with anyone so

insubordinate and so illmannered. He is worse than the archdeacon.' As she uttered these words she paced

about the room. The bishop said nothing; and when she herself had been silent for a few minutes she turned

upon him. 'Bishop,' she said, 'I hope that you agree with me. I expect that will agree with me in a matter that

is so of much moment to my comfort, and I may say to my position generally in the diocese. Bishop, why do

'You have behaved in such a way that I do not know that I shall ever speak again,' said the bishop.

'Disgraced you! I disgrace you! It is you that disgrace yourself by saying such words.'

'Very well. Let it be so. Perhaps you will go away now and leave me to myself. I have got a bad headache,

'Yes, you have been wrongvery wrong. Why didn't you go away when I asked you? You are always being

wrong. I wish I had never come to Barchester. In any other position I should not have felt it so much. As it is

'Not have felt what so much, Mr Proudie?' said the wife, going back in the excitement of her anger to the

nomenclature of old days. 'And this is to be my return for all my care in your behalf! Allow me to tell you,

sir, that in any position in which you may be placed I know what is due to you, and that your dignity will

never lose anything in my hands. I wish that you were as well able to take care of it yourself.' Then she

Bishop Proudie sat alone in his study throughout the whole day. Once or twice in the course of the morning

his chaplain came to him on some matter of business, and was answered with a smilethe peculiar softness

of which the chaplain did not fail to attribute the right cause. For it was soon known throughout the

household that there had been a quarrel. Could he quite have made up his mind to do socould he have

resolved that it would be altogether better to quarrel with his wifethe bishop would have appealed to the

chaplain, and have asked at any rate for sympathy. But even yet he could not bring himself to confess his

misery, and to own himself to another to be the wretch that he was. Then during the long hours of the day he

sat thinking of it all. How happy could he be if it were only possible for him to go away, and become even a

curate in a parish, without his wife! Would there ever come to him a time of freedom? Would she ever die?

He was older than she, and of course he would die first. Would it not be a fine thing if he could die at once,

What could he do, even supposing himself strong enough to fight the battle? He could not lock her up. He

could not even very well lock her out of his room. She was his wife, and must have the run of the house. He

could not altogether debar her from the society of the diocesan clergymen. He had, on this very morning,

taken strong measures with her. More than once or twice he had desired her to leave the room. What was

there to be done with a woman who would not obey her husbandwho would not even leave him to the

performance of his own work? What a blessed thing it would be if a bishop could go away from his home to

his work every day like a clerk in a public officeas a stonemason does! But there was no such escape for

And then for hours he thought of Dr Tempest and Mr Crawley, considering what he had better do to repair

the shipwreck of the morning. At last he resolved that he would write to the doctor; and before he had again

seen his wife, he did write his letter, and he sent it off. In this letter he made no direct illusion to the

occurrence of the morning, but wrote as though there had not been any fixed intention of a personal

discussion between them. 'I think it will be better that there should be a commission,' he said, 'and I would

suggest that you should have four other clergymen with you. Perhaps you will select two yourself out of your

rural deanery; and, if you do not object, I will name as the other two Mr Thumble and Mr Quiver, who are

both resident in the city.' As he wrote these two names he felt ashamed of himself, knowing that he had

chosen the two men as being special friends of his wife, and feeling that he should have been brave enough to

throw aside all considerations of his wife's favourespecially at this moment, in which he was putting on his

armour to do battle against her. 'It is not probable,' he continued to say in his letter, 'that you will be able to

make your report until after the trial of this unfortunate gentleman shall have taken place, and a verdict shall

have been given. Should he be acquitted, that, I imagine, should end the matter. There can be no reason why

we should attempt to go beyond the verdict of a jury. But should he be found guilty, I think we ought to be

ready with such steps as it will be becoming for us to take at the expiration of any sentence which may be

pronounced. It will be, at any rate, expedient that in such a case the matter should be brought before an

ecclesiastical court.' he knew well as he wrote this, that he was proposing something much milder than the

course intended by his wife when she had instigated him to take proceedings in the matter; but he did not

much regard that now. Though he had been weak enough to name certain clergymen as assessors with the

rural dean, because he thought that by doing so he would to a certain degree conciliate his wifethough he

had been so far a coward, yet he was resolved that he would not sacrifice to her his own judgment and his

own conscience in his manner of proceeding. He kept no copy of his letter, so that he might be unable to

show her his very words when she should ask to see them. Of course he would tell her what he had done; but

in telling her he would keep to himself what he had said as to the result of an acquittal in a civil court. She

need not yet be told that he had promised to take such a verdict as sufficing also for an ecclesiastical

acquittal. In this spirit his letter was written and sent off before he again saw his wife.

He did not meet her till they came together in the drawingroom before dinner. In explaining the whole truth

as to circumstances as they existed at the palace at the moment, it must be acknowledged that Mrs Proudie

herself, great as was her courage, and wide as were the resources which she possessed within herself, was

somewhat appalled by the position of affairs. I fear that it may now be too late for me to excite much

sympathy in the mind of any reader on behalf of Mrs Proudie. I shall never be able to make her popular. But

she had virtues, and their existence now made her unhappy. She did regard the dignity of her husband, and

she felt at the present moment that she had almost compromised it. She did also regard the welfare of the

clergymen around her, thinking of course in a general way that certain of them who agreed with her were the

clergymen whose welfare should be studied, and that certain of them who disagreed with her were the

clergymen whose welfare should be postponed. But now an idea made its way into her bosom that she was

not perhaps doing the best for the welfare of the diocese generally. What if it should come to pass that all the

clergymen of the diocese should refuse to open their mouths in her presence on ecclesiastical subjects, as Dr

Tempest had done? This special day was not one on which she was well contented with herself, though by no

During dinner she struggled to say a word or two to her husband, as though there had been no quarrel

between them. With him the matter had gone so deep that he could not answer her in the same spirit. There

were sundry members of the family presentdaughters, and a soninlaw, and a daughter's friend who was

staying with them; but even in the hope of appearing to be serene before them he could not struggle through

his deep despondence. He was very silent, and to his wife's words he answered hardly anything. He was

courteous and gentle with them all, but he spoke as little as was possible, and during the evening he sat alone,

with his head leaning on his handnot pretending even to read. He was aware that it was too late to make

His wife came to him that night in his dressingroom in a spirit of feminine softness that was very unusual

with her. 'My dear,' said she, 'let us forget what occurred this morning. If there has been anger, we are bound

as Christians to forget it.' She stood over him as she spoke, and put her hand upon his shoulder almost

'When a man's heart is broken, he cannot forget it,' was his reply. She still stood by him, and still kept her

hand upon him: but she could think of no other words of comfort to say. 'I will go to bed,' he said. 'It is the

We have seen that John Eames was prepared to start on his journey in search of the Arabins, and have seen

him after he had taken farewell of his office and of his master there, previous to his departure; but that matter

of his departure had not been arranged altogether with comfort as far as his official interests were concerned.

He had been perhaps a little abrupt in his mode of informing Sir Raffle Buffle, that there was a pressing cause

for his official absence, and Sir Raffle had replied to him that no private pressure could be allowed to

interfere with his public duties. 'I must go, Sir Raffle, at any rate,' Johnny had said; 'it is a matter affecting my

family and must not be neglected.' 'If you intend to go without leave,' said Sir Raffle, 'I presume you will first

put your resignation into the hands of Mr Kissing.' Now Mr Kissing was the secretary to the Board. This had

been serious undoubtedly. John Eames was not specially anxious to keep his present position as private

secretary to Sir Raffle, but he certainly had no desire to give up his profession altogether. He said nothing

more to the great man on that occasion, but before he left the office he wrote a private note to the chairman

expressing the extreme importance of the business, and begging that he might be given leave of absence. On

the next morning he received it back with a very few words written across it. 'It can't be done,' were the few

words which Sir Raffle Buffle had written across the note from his private secretary. Here was a difficulty

which Johnny had not anticipated, and which seemed to be insuperable. Sir Raffle would not have answered

'I don't see that it is nonsense at all. They can't get over a medical certificate from a respectable man; and

'I should go and let him do his worst,' said Fisher, who was another clerk. 'It wouldn't be more than putting

you down a place or two. As to losing your present berth you don't mind that, and they would never think of

'But I do mind being put down a place or two,' said Johnny, who could not forget that were he so put down

'I should give him a barrel of oysters, and talk to him about the Chancellor of the Exchequer,' said Fit

Howard, who had been private secretary before Eames, and might therefore be supposed to know the man.

'That might have done very well if I had not asked him, and been refused first,' said John Eames. 'I'll tell what

I'll do. I'll write a long letter on a sheet of foolscap paper, with a regular margin, so that it must come before

When he mentioned his difficulty on that evening to Mr Toogood, the lawyer begged him to give up his

journey. 'It will only be sending a clerk, and it won't cost so very much after all,' said Toogood. But Johnny's

pride could not allow him to give way. 'I'm not going to be done about it,' said he. 'I'm not going to resign, but

I will go even though he may dismiss me. I don't think it will come to that, but if it does it must.' His uncle

begged him not to think of such an alternative; but this discussion took place after dinner, and away from the

office, and Eames would not submit to bow his neck to authority. 'If it comes to that,' said he, 'a fellow might

as well be a slave at once. And what is the use of a fellow having a little money if it does not make him

independent? You may be sure of one thing, I shall go;' and that on the day fixed.

On the next morning John Eames was very silent when he went into Sir Raffle's room at the office. There was

now only this day and another before that fixed for his departure, and it was of course very necessary that

matters should be arranged. But he said nothing to Sir Raffle during the morning. The great man himself was

condescending and endeavouring to be kind. He knew that his stern refusal had greatly irritated his private

secretary, and was anxious to show that, though in the cause of public duty he was obliged to be stern, he was

quite willing to forget his sternness when the necessity for it had passed away. On this morning, therefore, he

was very cheery. But in the afternoon, when most of the men had left the office, Johnny appeared before the

chairman for the last time that day with a very long face. He was dressed in black, and had changed his

ordinary morning coat for a frock, which gave him an appearance altogether unlike that which was customary

to him. And he spoke almost in a whisper, very slowly; and when Sir Raffle jokedand Sir Raffle often

would jokehe not only did not laugh, but he absolutely sighed. 'Is there anything the matter with you,

'It is essential for the honour of one of my family that I should be at Florence by this day week. I cannot make

up my mind what I ought to do. I do not wish to lose my position in the public service, to which, as you

know, I am warmly attached; but I cannot submit to see the honour of my family sacrificed!'

'Eames,' said Sir Raffle, 'that must be nonsense;that must be nonsense. There can be no reason why you

'Of course you will. It is out of the question that a young man should take the bit between his teeth in that

'As for taking the bit between his teeth, Sir Raffle, I do not think that any man was ever more obedient,

perhaps I should say more submissive, than I have been. But there must be a limit to everything.'

'What do you mean by that, Mr Eames?' said Sir Raffle, turning in anger upon his private secretary. But

Johnny disregarded his anger. Johnny, indeed, had made up his mind that Sir Raffle should be very angry.

'What do you mean, Mr Eames, by saying that there must be a limit? I know nothing about limits. One would

'So I do. I think, Sir Raffle, that you are treating me with great cruelty. I have explained to you my family

'Yes, I have, Sir Raffle. I have explained to you that matters relating to one of my family, which materially

affect the honour of a certain one of its members, demand that I should go at once to Florence. You tell me

'Of course you must not go without leave. I never heard of such a thing in my life.' And Sir Raffle lifted his

'So I have drawn up a short statement of the circumstances, which I hope may be read at the Board when the

'Yes, Sir Raffle; I must go. The honour of a certain branch of my family demands that I should do so. As I

have for some time been so especially under you, I thought it would be proper to show you what I have said

before I send my letter in, and therefore I have brought it with me. Here it is.' And Johnny handed to Sir

Sir Raffle began to be uncomfortable. He had acquired a character for tyranny in the public service of which

he was aware, though he thought that he knew well that he had never deserved it. Some official

bigwigperhaps that Chancellor of the Exchequer of whom he was so fondhad on one occasion hinted

to him that a little softness of usage would be compatible with the prejudices of the age. Softness was

impossible to Sir Raffle; but his temper was sufficiently under his control to enable him to encounter the

rebuke, and to pull himself up from time to time when he found himself tempted to speak loud and to take

things with a high hand. He knew that a clerk should not be dismissed for leaving his office, who could show

that his absence had been caused by some matter really affecting the interest of his family; and that were he

to drive Eames to go on this occasion without leave, Eames would simply be called in to state what was the

matter of moment which had taken him away. Probably he had stated that matter of moment in this very

document which Sir Raffle was holding in his hand. But Sir Raffle was not willing to be conquered by the

document. If it was necessary that he should give way, he would much prefer to give wayout of his own

goodnature, let us saywithout looking at the document at all. 'I must, under the circumstances, decline to

read this,' he said, 'unless it should come before me officially,' and he handed back the paper.

'I thought it best to let you see it if you pleased,' said John Eames. Then he turned round as though he were

going to leave the room; but suddenly he turned back again. 'I don't like to leave you, Sir Raffle, without

saying goodbye. I do not suppose we shall meet again. Of course you must do your duty, and I do not wish

you to think that I have any personal illwill against you.' So saying, he put out his hand to Sir Raffle as

though to take a final farewell. Sir Raffle looked at him in amazement. He was dressed, as has been said, in

black, and did not look like the John Eames of every day to whom Sir Raffle was accustomed.

'Of course I don't know anything of this matter that is so important to your family.'

'Can't you explain it to me, then? so that I may have some reasonif there is any reason.'

Then John told the story of Mr Crawleya considerable portion of the story; and in his telling of it, I think it

probable that he put more weight upon the necessity of his mission to Italy than it could have fairly been

made to bear. In the course of the narration Sir Raffle did once contrive to suggest that a lawyer going to

Florence might do the business at any rate as well as John Eames. But Johnny denied this. 'No, Sir Raffle, it

is impossible; quite impossible,' he said. 'If you saw the lawyer who is acting in the matter, Mr Toogood, who

is also my uncle, he would tell you the same.' Sir Raffle had already heard something of the story of Mr

Crawley, and was now willing to accept the sad tragedy of that case as an excuse for his private secretary's

somewhat insubordinate conduct. 'Under the circumstances, Eames, I suppose you must go; but I think you

'It is always best to tell the whole of the story,' said Sir Raffle. Johnny being quite content with the upshot of

the negotiations accepted this gentle rebuke in silence and withdrew. On the next day he appeared again at the

office in his ordinary costume, and an idea crossed Sir Raffle's brain that he had been partly 'done' by the

affectation of a costume. 'I'll be even with him some day,' said Sir Raffle to himself.

'I've got my leave, boys,' said Eames when he went out into the room in which his three friends sat.

'You don't mean that old Huffle Scuffle has given it out of his own head?' Said Fisher.

'I'm blessed if you don't beat cockfighting,' said Cradell, lost in admiration at his friend's adroitness.

We know how John passed his evening after that. He went first to see Lily Dale at her uncle's lodgings in

Sackville Street, from thence he was taken to the presence of the charming Madalina in Porchester Terrace,

and then wound up the night with his friend Conway Dalrymple. When he got to his bed he felt himself to

have been triumphant, but in spite of his triumph he was ashamed of himself. Why had he left Lily to go to

Madalina? As he thought of this he quoted to himself against himself Hamlet's oftenquoted appeal of the

two portraits. How could he not despise himself in that he could find any pleasure in Madalina, having a Lily

Dale to fill his thoughts? 'But she is not fair to me,' he said to himselfthinking thus to comfort himself. But

On the next morning early his uncle, Mr Toogood met him at the Dover Railway Station. 'Upon my word,

Johnny, you're a clever fellow,' said he. 'I never thought you would make it all right with Sir Raffle.'

'As right as a trivet, uncle. There are some people, if you can only get to learn the length of their feet, you can

'Yes, I think so. From what we have heard, Mrs Arabin must be either there or at Venice, and I don't suppose

I could learn from anyone at Paris at which town she is staying at this moment.'

'Her address is Florence:poste restante, Florence. You will be sure to find out at any of the hotels where

'But when I have found her, I don't suppose she can tell me anything,' said Johnny.

'Who can tell? She may or she may not. My belief is that the money was her present altogether and not his. It

seems that they don't mix their moneys. He has always some scruple about it because of her son by a former

marriage, and they always have different accounts at their bankers'. I found that out when I was at

'Yes, Crawley was his friend; but I don't know that fiftypound notes have always been so plentiful with him.

'Well; they are not. And he has nothing of his own, as far as I can learn. It would be just the thing for her to

doto give money to his friend. At any rate she will tell you whether it was or not.'

'Should you find it necessary. He will probably be on his way back, and she will know where you can hit him

on the road. You must make him understand that it is essential that he should be here some little time before

the trial. You can understand, Johnny;and as he spoke Mr Toogood lowered his voice to a whisper, though

they were walking together on the platform of the railway station, and could not possibly have been

overheard by anyone. 'You can understand that it may be necessary to prove that he is not exactly compos

mentis, and if so it will be essential that he should have some influential friend near him. Otherwise that

bishop will trample him into dust.' If Mr Toogood could have seen the bishop at this time and have read the

troubles of the poor man's heart, he would hardly have spoken of him as being so terrible a tyrant.

'I never did see much in bishops or deans as yet,' said Johnny, 'and I should feel rather awestruck travelling

'I daresay you'll find him walking about Jerusalem with a wideawake on, and a big stick in his hand,

probably smoking a cigar. Deans contrive to get out of their armour sometimes, as the knights of old used to.

Bishops, I fancy, find it more difficult. Wellgoodbye, old fellow. I'm very much obliged to you for

Then Mr Toogood went home to breakfast, and from his own house he proceeded to his office. When he had

been there an hour or two, there came to him a messenger from the IncomeTax Office, with an official note

addressed to himself by Sir Raffle Bufflea note which looked to be very official. Sir Raffle Buffle

presented his compliments to Mr Toogood, and could Mr Toogood favour Sir R B with the present address of

Mr John Eames. 'Old fox,' said Mr Toogood'but then such a stupid old fox! As if it was likely that I should

have poached on Johnny if anything was wrong.' So Mr Toogood sent his compliments to Sir Raffle Buffle,

and begged to inform Sir R B that Mr John Eames was away on very particular family business, which would

take him in the first instance to Florence;but that from Florence he would probably have to go onto

Jerusalem without the loss of an hour. 'Stupid old fool!' said Mr Toogood, as he sent off his reply by the

I wonder whether anyone will read these pages who has never known anything of the bitterness of a family

quarrel? If so, I shall have a reader very fortunate, or else very coldblooded. It would be wrong to say that

love produces quarrels; but love does produce those intimate relations of which quarrelling is too often one of

the consequencesone of the consequences which frequently seem to be so natural, and sometimes seem to

be unavoidable. One brother rebukes the otherand what brothers ever lived together between whom there

is no such rebuking?then some warm word is misunderstood and hotter words follow and there is a

quarrel. The husband tyrannizes, knowing that it is his duty to direct, and the wife disobeys, or only partially

obeys, thinking that a little independence will become herand so there is a quarrel. The father, anxious

only for his son's good, looks into that son's future with other eyes than those of his son himselfand so

there is a quarrel. They come very easily these quarrels, but the quittance from them is sometimes terribly

difficult. Much of thought is necessary before the angry man can remember that he too in part may have been

wrong; and any attempt at such thinking is almost beyond the power of him who is carefully nursing his

wrath, let it cool! But the nursing of such quarrelling kills all happiness. The very man who is nursing his

wrath lest it coolhis wrath against one whom he loves perhaps the best of all whom it has been given to

him to loveis himself wretched as long as it lasts. His anger poisons every pleasure of his life. He is sullen

at his meals, and cannot understand his book as he turns the pages. His work, let it be what it may, is ill done.

He is full of his quarrelnursing it. He is telling himself how much he has loved that wicked one, and that

now that wicked one is repaying him simply with wickedness! And yet the wicked one is at that very moment

dearer to him than ever. If that wicked one would only be forgiven how sweet would be the world again! And

So it was in these days with Archdeacon Grantly. He was very angry with his son. It is hardly too much to

say that in every moment of his life, whether waking or sleeping, he was thinking of the injury his son was

doing him. He had almost come to forget the fact that his anger had been first roused by the feeling that his

son was about to do himself an injuryto cut his own throat. Various other considerations had now added

themselves to that, and filled not only his mind but his daily conversation with his wife. How terrible would

be the disgrace to Lord Hartletop, how incurable the injury to Griselda, the marchioness, should the

brotherinlaw of the one, and the brother of the other, marry the daughter of a convicted thief! Of himself

he would say nothing. So he declared constantly, though of himself he did say a great deal. Of himself he

would say nothing, though of course such a marriage would ruin him in the county. 'My dear,' said his wife,

'that is nonsense. That is really nonsense. I feel sure there is not a single person in the county who would

think of the marriage in such a light.' Then the archdeacon would have quarrelled with his wife, too, had she

not been too wise to admit such a quarrel. Mrs Grantly was very wise and knew that it took two persons to

make a quarrel. He told her over and over again that she was in league with her son that she was

encouraging her son to marry Grace Crawley. 'I believe that in your heart you wish it,' he once said to her.

'No, my dear, I do not wish it. I do not think it a becoming marriage. But if he does marry her, I should wish

to receive his wife in my house and certainly would not quarrel with him.' 'I will never receive her,' the

archdeacon had replied; 'and as for him, I can only say that in such a case I will make no provision for his

It will be remembered that the archdeacon had on a former occasion instructed his wife to write to their son

and tell him of his father's determination. Mrs Grantly had so manoeuvred that a little time had been gained,

and that those instructions had not been insisted upon in all their bitterness. Since that time Major Grantly

had renewed his assurance that he would marry Grace Crawley if Grace Crawley would accept himwriting

on this occasion direct to his fatherand had asked his father whether, in such a case, he was to look forward

to be disinherited. 'It is essential that I should know,' the major had said, 'because in such a case I must take

immediate measures for leaving this place.' His father had sent back his letter, writing a few words at the

bottom of it. 'If you do as you propose above, you must expect nothing from me.' The words were written in

large round handwriting, very hurriedly, and the son when he received them perfectly understood the mood of

Then there came tidings, addressed on this occasion to Mrs Grantly, that Cosby Lodge was to be given up.

Ladyday had come, and the notice necessarily to be given at that period, was so given. 'I know this will

grieve you,' Major Grantly had said, 'but my father has driven me to it.' This, in itself, was a cause of great

sorrow, both to the archdeacon and to Mrs Grantly, as there were circumstances connected with Cosby Lodge

which made them think that it was a very desirable residence for their son. 'I shall sell everything about the

place and go abroad at once,' he said in a subsequent letter. 'My present idea is that, I shall settle myself at

Pau, as my income will suffice for me to live there, and education for Edith will be cheap. At any rate I will

not continue to live in England. I could never be happy here in circumstance so altered. Of course I should

not have left my profession, unless I had understood from my father that the income arising from it would not

be necessary to me. I do not, however, mean to complain, but simply to tell you that I shall go.' There were

'I shall stay till after the trial,' he said. 'If she will then go with me, well and good; but whether she will or not,

I shall not remain here.' All this seemed to Mrs Grantly to be peculiarly unfortunate, for had he not resolved

to go, things might even yet have righted themselves. From what she could now understand of the character

of Miss Crawley, whom she did not know personally, she thought it probable that Grace, in the event of her

father being found guilty by the jury, would absolutely and persistently refuse the offer made to her. She

would be too good, as Mrs Grantly put it to herself, to bring misery and disgrace into another family. But

should Mr Crawley be acquitted, and should the marriage then take place, the archdeacon himself might

probably be got to forgive it. In either case there would be no necessity for breaking up the house at Cosby

Lodge. But her dear son Henry, her best beloved, was obstinate and stiffnecked and would take no advice.

'He is even worse than his father,' she said, in her shortlived anger, to her own father to whom alone at this

It was her habit to go over to the deanery at any rate twice a week at this time, and on the occasion of one of

the visits so made, she expressed very strongly her distress at the family quarrel which had come among

them. The old man took his grandson's part through and through. 'I do not at all see why he should not marry

the young lady if he likes her. As for money, there ought to be enough without his having to look for a wife

'And as to rank,' continued Mr Harding, 'Henry will not at any rate be going lower than his father did when he

married you;not so low indeed, for at that time I was only a minor canon, and Mr Crawley is in possession

'It is not because Mr Crawley is only perpetual curate of Hogglestock that the archdeacon objects to the

marriage. It has nothing to do with that at all. At the present moment he is in disgrace.'

'All the world thinks that he is guilty. And then he is such a man;so singular, so unlike anybody else! You

'I hope not, my dear. Money is worth thinking of, but it is not worth very much thought.'

'But it does give advantages, and the absence of advantages must be very much felt in the education of a girl.

You would hardly wish Henry to marry a young woman who, from the want of money, had not been brought

up among ladies. It is not Miss Crawley's fault, but such has been her lot. We cannot ignore these

'I am told that she has been educated infinitely more than most of the young ladies in the neighbourhood,' said

'You know what I mean, papa. But the fact is, that it is impossible to deal with men. They will never be

reasonable. A marriage such as this would be injurious to Henry; but it will not be ruinous; and as to

'But the archdeacon will look at it as though it would destroy Henry and Edith together, while you speak of it

'If the young people love each other, I think it would be the best thing in the world,' said Mr Harding.

'But, papa, you cannot but think that his father's wish should go for something,' said Mrs Grantly, who,

desirous as she was on the one side to support her son, could not bear that her husband should, on the other

'I do not know, my dear,' said Mr Harding; 'but I do think that if the two young people are fond of each other,

and if there is anything for them to live upon, it cannot be right to keep them apart. You know, my dear, she

is the daughter of a gentleman.' Mrs Grantly upon this left her father almost brusquely, without speaking

another word on the subject; for though was opposed to the vehement anger of her husband, she could not

Mr Harding was at this time living all alone in the deanery. For some few years the deanery had been his

home, and as his youngest daughter was the dean's wife, there could no more comfortable restingplace for

the evening of his life. During the last month or two the days had gone tediously long with him; for he had

had the large house all to himself, and he was a man who did not love solitude. It is hard to conceive that the

old, whose thoughts have been all thought out, should ever love to live alone. Solitude is surely for the

young, who have time before them for the execution of schemes, and who can, therefore, take delight in

thinking. In these days the poor old man would wander about the rooms, shambling from one chamber to

another, and would feel ashamed when the servants met him ever on the move. He would make little

apologies for his uneasiness, which they would accept graciously, understanding, after a fashion, why it was

that he was uneasy. 'He ain't got nothing to do,' said the housemaid to the cook 'and as for reading, they say

that some of the young ones can read all day sometimes, and all night too; but bless you, when you're nigh

eighty, reading don't go for much.' The housemaid was right as to Mr Harding's reading. He was not one who

had read so much in his earlier days as to enable him to make reading go far with him now that he was near

eighty. So he wandered about the room, and sat here for a few minutes, and there for a few minutes, and

though he did not sleep much, he made the hours of the night as many as possible. Every morning he

shambled across from the deanery to the cathedral, and attended the morning service, sitting in the stall which

he had occupied for fifty years. The distance was very short, not exceeding, indeed a hundred yards from a

sidedoor in the deanery to another sidedoor into the cathedral; but short as it was there had come to be a

question whether he should be allowed to go alone. It had been feared that he might fall on his passage and

hurt himself; for there was a step here, and a step there, and the light was not very good in the purlieus of the

old cathedral. A word or two had been said once, and the offer of an arm to help him had been made; but he

had rejected the offered assistancesoftly, indeed, but still firmlyand every day he tottered off by himself

hardly lifting his feet as he went, and aiding himself on his journey by a hand upon the wall when he thought

that nobody was looking at him. But many did see him, and they who knew himladies generally of the

citywould offer him a hand. Nobody was milder in his dislikings than Mr Harding; but there were ladies in

Barchester upon whose arm he would always decline to lean, bowing courteously as he did so, and saying a

word or two of constrained civility. There were others whom he would allow to accompany him home to the

door of the deanery, with whom he delighted to linger and chat if the morning was warm, and to whom he

would tell little stories of his own doings in the cathedral services in the old days, when Bishop Grantly had

ruled the diocese. Never a word did he say against Bishop Proudie, or against Bishop Proudie's wife; but the

many words which he did say in praise of Bishop Grantlywho, by his showing, was surely one of the best

of churchmen who ever walked through this vale of sorrowwere as eloquent in dispraise of the existing

prelate as could ever have been any more clearlypointed phrases. This daily visit to the cathedral, where he

would say his prayers as he had said them for so many years, and listen to the organ, of which he knew all the

power and every blemish as though he himself had made the stops and fixed the pipes, was the chief

occupation of his life. It was a pity that it could not have been made to cover a larger portion of his day.

It was sometimes sad enough to watch him as he sat alone. He would have a book near him, and for a while

would keep it in his hands. It would generally be some volume of good old standard theology with which he

had been, or supposed himself to have been, conversant from his youth. But the book would soon be laid

aside, and gradually he would move himself away from it, and he would stand about the room, looking now

out of a window from which he would fancy that he could not be seen, or gazing up at some print which he

had known for years; and then he would sit down for a while in one chair, and for a while in another, while

his mind was wandering back into the old days, thinking of old troubles and remembering old joys. And he

had a habit, when he was sure that he that he was not watched, of creeping up to a great black wooden case,

which always stood in one corner of the sittingroom which he occupied in the deanery. Mr Harding, when

he was younger, had been a performer on the violoncello, and in this case there was still the instrument from

which he had been wont to extract the sounds which he had so dearly loved. Now in these latter days he never

made any attempt to play. Soon after he had come to the deanery there had fallen upon him an illness, and

after that he had never again asked for his bow. They who were around himhis daughter chiefly and her

husbandhad given the matter much thought, arguing with themselves whether or no it would be better to

invite him to resume the task he so loved; for of all the works of his life this playing on the violoncello had

been the sweetest to him; but even before that illness his hand had greatly failed him, and the dean and Mrs

Arabin had agreed that it would be better to let the matter pass without a word. He had never asked to be

allowed to play. He had expressed no regrets. When he himself would propose that his daughter should 'give

them a little music'and he would make such a proposition on every evening that was suitablehe would

never say a word of those former performances at which he himself had taken a part. But it had become

known to Mrs Arabin, through the servants, that he had once dragged the instrument forth from its case when

he thought the house to be nearly deserted; and a wail of sounds had been heard, very low, very shortlived,

recurring now and again at fitful intervals. He had at those times attempted to play, as though with a muffled

bowso that none should know of his vanity and folly. Then there had been further consultations at the

deanery, and it had been again agreed that it would be best to say nothing to him of his music.

In these latter days of which I am now speaking he would never draw the instrument out of its case. Indeed he

was aware that it was too heavy for him to handle without assistance. But he would pass his fingers among

the broad strings, and ever and anon would produce from one of them a low, melancholy, almost unearthly

sound. And then he would pause, never daring to produce such notes in successionone close upon the

other. And these last sad moans of the old fiddle were now known through the household. They were the

ghosts of the melody of days long past. He imagined that his visits to the box were unsuspectedthat none

knew of the folly of his old fingers which could not keep themselves from touching the wires; but the voice

of the old violoncello had been recognised by the servants and by his daughter, and when that low wail was

heard through the houselike the last dying note of a dirgethey would all know that Mr Harding was

When the dean and Mrs Arabin had first talked of going abroad for a long visit, it had been understood that

Mr Harding should pass the period of their absence with his other daughter at Plumstead; but when the time

came he begged Mrs Arabin to be allowed to remain in his old rooms. 'Of course I shall go backwards and

forwards,' he had said. 'There is nothing I like so much as a change now and then.' The result had been that he

had gone once to Plumstead during the dean's absence. When he had thus remonstrated, begging go be

allowed to remain in Barchester, Mrs Arabin had declared her intention of giving up her tour. In telling her

father of this she had not said that her altered purpose had arisen from her disinclination to leave him alone;

but he had perceived that it was so, and had then consented to be taken over to Plumstead. There was nothing,

he said, which he would like so much as going over to Plumstead for four or five months. It had ended in his

having his own way altogether. The Arabins had gone upon their tour, and he was left in possession of the

deanery. 'I should not like to die out of Barchester,' he said to himself in excuse to himself for his

disinclination to sojourn long under the archdeacon's roof. But, in truth, the archdeacon, who loved him well

and who, after a fashion, had always been good to himwho had always spoken of the connexion which had

bound the two families together as the great blessing of his lifewas too rough in his greetings for the old

man. Mr Harding had ever mixed something of fear with his warm affection for his elder soninlaw, and

now in these closing hours of his life he could not avoid a certain amount of shrinking from that loud

voicea certain inaptitude to be quite at ease in that commanding presence. The dean, his second

soninlaw, had been a modern friend in comparison with the archdeacon; but the dean was more gentle with

him; and then the dean's wife had ever been the dearest to him of human beings. It may be a doubt whether

one of the dean's children was not now almost more dear, and whether in these days he did not have more

free communication with that little girl than with any other human being. Her name was Susan, but he had

always called her Posy, having himself invented for her that soubriquet. When it had been proposed to him to

pass the winter and spring at Plumstead, the suggestion had been made alluring by a promise that Posy also

should be taken to Mrs Grantly's house. But he, as we have seen, remained at the deanery, and Posy had

Posy was now five years old, and could talk well, and had her own ideas of things. Posy's eyeshers, and no

others besides her ownwere allowed to see the inhabitant of the big black case; and now that the deanery

was so nearly deserted, Posy's fingers had touched the strings and had produced an infantine moan. 'Grandpa,

let me do it again.' Twang! It was not, however, in truth, a twang, but a sound as of a prolonged dull, almost

deadly, hummmmm! On this occasion the moan was not entirely infantinePosy's fingers having been

something too strongand the case was closed and locked, and grandpa shook his head.

'But Mrs Baxter won't be angry,' said Posy. Mrs Baxter was the housekeeper in the deanery, and had Mr

'No, my darling; Mrs Baxter will not be angry, but we mustn't disturb the house.'

'No,' said Posy, with much of important awe in her tone; 'we mustn't disturb the house; must we, grandpa?'

And so she gave in her adhesion to the closing of the case. But Posy could play cat'scradle, and as

cat'scradle did not disturb the house at all, there was a good deal of cat'scradle played in those days. Posy's

fingers were so soft and pretty, so small and deft, that the dear old man delighted in taking the strings from

On the afternoon after the conversation respecting Grace Crawley which is recorded in the early part of this

chapter, a messenger from Barchester went over to Plumstead, and part of his mission consisted of a note

from Mrs Baxter to Mrs Grantly, beginning 'Honoured Madam,' and informing Mrs Grantly, among other

things, that her 'respected papa', as Mrs Baxter called him, was not quite so well as usual; not that Mrs Baxter

thought that there was much the matter. Mr Harding had been to the cathedral service, as was usual with him,

but had come home leaning on a lady's arm, who had thought it well to stay with him at the door till it had

been opened for him. After that 'Miss Posy' had found him asleep, and had been unableor if not unable,

unwilling, to wake him. 'Miss Posy' had come down to Mrs Baxter somewhat in a fright, and hence this letter

had been written. Mrs Baxter thought that there was nothing 'to fright' Mrs Grantly, and she wasn't sure that

she should have written at all only that Dick was bound to go over to Plumstead with the wool; but as Dick

was going, Mrs Baxter thought it proper to send her duty, and to say that to her humble way of thinking

perhaps it might be best that Mr Harding shouldn't go alone to the cathedral in the morning. 'If the dear

reverend gentleman was to get a tumble, ma'am,' said the letter, 'it would be awkward.' Then Mrs Grantly

remembered that she had left her father almost without a greeting in the previous day, and she resolved that

she would go over very early on the following morningso early that she would be at the deanery before her

'He ought to have come over here. And not stayed there by himself,' said the archdeacon, when his wife told

'It is too late to think of that now, my dear; and one can understand, I think, that he should not like leaving the

cathedral as long as he can attend it. The truth is that he does not like being out of Barchester.'

'He would be much better here,' said the archdeacon. 'Of course you can have the carriage and go over. We

can breakfast at eight; and if you can bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that he ought to come.'

Mrs Grantly made no answer to this, knowing very well that she could not bring herself to go beyond the

gentlest persuasion with her father, and on the next morning she was at the deanery by ten o'clock. Halfpast

ten was the hour at which the service began. Mrs Baxter contrived to meet her before she saw her father, and

begged her not to let it be known that any special tidings of Mr Harding's failing strength had been sent from

the deanery to Plumstead. 'And how is my father?' asked Mrs Grantly. 'Well, then, ma'am,' said Baxter, 'in

one sense he's finely. He took a morsel of early lamb to his dinner yesterday, and relished it ever so

wellonly he gave Miss Posy the best part of it. And then he sat with Miss Posy quite happy for an hour or

so. And then he slept in his chair; and you know, ma'am, we never wake him. And after that old Skulpit

toddled up from the hospital'this was Hiram's Hospital of which establishment, in the city of Barchester,

Mr Harding had once been the warden and kind master, as has been told in former chronicles of the

city'and your papa has said, ma'am, you know, that he is always to see any of the old men when they come

up. And Skulpit is sly, and no better than he should be, and got money from your father, ma'am, I know. And

then he had just a drop of tea, and after that I took him a glass of port wine with my own hands. And it

touched me, ma'am, so it did, when he said, "Oh, Mrs Baxter, how good you are; you know well what I like."

And then he went to bed. I listened hardnot from idle curiosity, ma'am, as you, who know me, will believe,

but just because it's becoming to know what he's about, as there might be an accident, you know, ma'am.'

'You are very good, Mrs Baxter, very good.' 'Thank ye, ma'am, for saying so. And so I listened hard; but he

didn't go to his music, poor gentleman; and I think he had a quiet night. He doesn't sleep much at nights, poor

gentleman, but he's very quiet; leastwise he was last night.' This was the bulletin which Mrs Baxter gave Mrs

She found him preparing himself for his visit to the cathedral. Some year or twobut no morebefore the

date of which we are speaking, he had still taken some small part in the service; and while he had done so he

had of course worn his surplice. Living so close to the cathedralso close that he could almost walk out of

the house into the transepthe had kept his surplice in his own room, and had gone down in his vestment. It

had been a bitter day to him when he had first found himself constrained to abandon the white garment which

he loved. He had encountered some failure in the performance of the slight clerical task allotted to him, and

the dean had tenderly advised him to desist. He did not utter one word of remonstrance. 'It will perhaps be

better,' the dean had said. 'Yesit will be better,' Mr Harding had replied. 'Few have had accorded to them

the high privilege of serving their Master in His house for so many yearsthough few more humbly, or with

lower gifts.' But on the following morning, and for nearly a week afterwards, he had been unable to face the

minor canon and the vergers, and the old women who knew him so well, in his ordinary black garments. At

last he went down with the dean, and occupied a stall close to the dean's seat far away from that which he

had sat for so many yearsand in this seat he had said his prayers ever since that day. And now his surplices

were washed and ironed and folded and put away; but there were moments in which he would stealthily visit

them, as he also stealthily visited his friend in the black wooden case. This was very melancholy, and the

sadness of it was felt by all those who lived with him; but he never alluded himself to any of those

bereavements which age had brought him. Whatever might be his regrets, he kept them ever within his own

Posy was with him when Mrs Grantly went up into his room, holding for him his hat and stick while he was

engaged in brushing a suspicion of dust from his black gaiters. 'Grandpapa, here is aunt Susan,' said Posy.

The old man looked up with somethingwith some slightest sign of that habitual fear which was always

aroused within his bosom by visitations from Plumstead. Had Mrs Arabin thoroughly understood the

difference in her father's feeling toward herself and toward her sister, I think she would hardly have gone

forth upon any tour while he remained with her in the deanery. It is very hard sometimes to know how

intensely we are loved, and of what value our presence is to those who love us! Mrs Grantly saw the

lookdid not analyse it, did not quite understand itbut felt, as she had often felt before, that it was not

altogether laden with welcome. But all this had nothing to do with the duty on which she had come; nor did

it, in the slightest degree, militate against her own affection. 'Papa,' she said, kissing him, 'you are surprised to

'Well, my dear, yes;but very glad all the same. I hope everybody is well at Plumstead?'

'No, my dear, nonot yet, Posy. When Posy is a great girl she can go to the cathedral every day. Only then,

'I thought that, perhaps, papa, you would sit with me a little while this morning, instead of going to morning

'Certainly, my dearcertainly. Only I do not like not going;for who can say how often I may be able to go

After that she did not have the heart to ask him to stay, and therefore she went with him. As they passed

down the stairs and out of the doors she was astonished to find how weak were his footstepshow powerless

he was against the slightest misadventure. On this very day he would have tripped at the upward step at the

cathedral door had she not been with him. 'Oh, papa,' she said 'indeed, indeed, you should not come here

alone.' Then he apologised for his little stumble with many words and much shame, assuring her that anybody

might trip on an occasion. It was purely an accident; and though it was a comfort to have had her arm, he was

sure that he would have recovered himself even had he been alone. He always, he said, kept quite close to the

wall, so that there might be no mistakeno possibility of an accident. All this he said volubly, but with

confused words, in the covered stone passage leading into the transept. And, as he thus spoke, Mrs Grantly

made up her mind that her father should never again go to the cathedral alone. He never did go again to the

When they returned to the deanery, Mr Harding was fluttered, weary, and unwell. When his daughter left him

for a few minutes he told Mrs Baxter in confidence of the story of his accident, and his great grief that his

daughter should have seen it. 'Laws amercy, sir, it was a blessing she was with you,' said Mrs Baxter; 'it was,

indeed, Mr Harding.' Then Mr Harding had been angry, and spoke almost crossly to Mrs Baxter; but, before

she left the room, he found an opportunity of begging her pardonnot in a set speech to that effect, but by a

little word of gentle kindness, which she had understood perfectly. 'Papa,' said Mrs Grantly to him as soon as

she ha succeeded in getting both Posy and Mrs Baxter out of the roomagainst the doing of which, Mr

Harding had manoeuvred with all his little impotent skill'Papa, you must promise that you will not go to

the cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home.' When he heard the sentence he looked at her with blank

misery in his eyes. He made not attempt at remonstrance. He begged for no respite. The word had gone forth,

and he knew that it must be obeyed. Though he would have hidden the signs of his weakness had he been

able, he would not condescend to plead that he was strong. 'If you think it wrong, my dear, I will not go

alone,' he said. 'Papa, I do; indeed I do. Dear papa, I would not hurt you by saying it if I did not know that I

am right.' He was sitting with his hand upon the table, and, as she spoke to him, she put her hand upon his,

She left him again for a while, having some business out in the city, and he was alone in his room for an hour.

What was there left to him now in the world? Old as he was, and in some things almost childish,

nevertheless, he thought of this keenly, and some halfrealised remembrance of the 'lean and slippered

pantaloon' flitted across his mind, causing him a pang. What was there left to him now in the world? Posy and

cat'scradle! Then, in the midst of his regrets, as he sat with his back bent in his old easychair, with one arm

over the shoulder of the chair, and the other hanging loose by his side, on a sudden there came across his face

a smile as sweet as every brightened the face of man or woman. He had been able to tell himself that he had

no ground for complaintgreat ground rather for rejoicing and gratitude. Had not the world and all in it been

good to him; had he not children who loved him, who had done him honour, who had been to him always a

crown of glory, never a mark for reproach; had not his lines fallen to him in very pleasant places; was it not

his happy fate to go and leave it all amidst the good words and kind loving cares of devoted friends? Whose

latter days had ever been more blessed than his? And for the future? It was as he thought of this that the

smile came across his faceas though it were already the face of an angel. And then he muttered to himself

a word or two. 'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant

When Mrs Grantly returned she found him in jocund spirits. And yet she perceived that he was so weak that

when he left his chair he could barely get across the room without assistance. Mrs Baxter, indeed, had not

sent to her too soon, and it was well that the prohibition had come in time to prevent some terrible accident.

'Papa,' she said, 'I think you had better go with me to Plumstead. The carriage is here, and I can take you

home so comfortably.' But he would not allow himself to be taken on this occasion to Plumstead. He smiled

and thanked her, and put his hand into hers, and repeated his promise that he would not leave the house on

any occasion without assistance, and declared himself specially thankful to her for coming to him on that

special morning;but he would not be taken to Plumstead. 'When summer comes,' he said, 'then, if you will

He meant no deceit, and yet he had told himself within the last hour that he should never see another summer.

He could not tell even his daughter that after such a life as this, after more than fifty years spent in the

ministration of his darling cathedral, it specially behoved him to dieas he had livedat Barchester. He

could not say this to his eldest daughter; but had his Eleanor been at home, he could have said it to her. He

thought he might yet live to see his Eleanor once again. If this could be given to him he would ask for

On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs Baxter wrote another letter, in which she told Mrs Grantly that her

father had declared, at his usual hour of rising that morning, that he was not going to the cathedral, he would,

he thought, lie in bed a little longer. And then he had been in bed the whole day. 'And perhaps, honoured

It was now known throughout Barchester that a commission was to be held by the bishop's orders, at which

inquiry would be madethat is, ecclesiastical inquiryas to the guilt imputed to Mr Crawley in the matter

of Mr Soames's cheque. Sundry rumours had gone abroad as to quarrels which had taken place on the subject

among certain clergymen high in office; but these were simply rumours, and nothing was in truth known.

There was no more discreet clergyman in the diocese than Dr Tempest, and not a word had escaped from him

as to the stormy nature of that meeting in the bishop's palace, at which he had attended with the bishopand

at which Mrs Proudie had attended also. When it is said that the fact of this coming commission was known

to all Barsetshire, allusion is of course made to that portion of the inhabitants of Barsetshire to which clerical

matters were dear;and as such matters were specially dear to the inhabitants of the parish of Framley, the

commission was discussed very eagerly in that parish, and was specially discussed by the Dowager Lady

And there was a double interest attached to the commission in the parish of Framley by the fact that Mr

Robarts, the vicar, had been invited by Dr Tempest to be one of the clergymen who were to assist in making

the inquiry. 'I also to propose to ask Mr Oriel of Greshambury to join us,' said Dr Tempest. 'The bishop

wishes to appoint the other two, and has already named Mr Thumble and Mr Quiverful, who are both

residents in the city. Perhaps his lordship may be right in thinking it better that the matter should not be left

altogether in the hands of clergymen who hold livings in the diocese. You are no doubt aware that neither Mr

Thumble nor Mr Quiverful do hold any benefice.' Mr Robarts felt as everybody else did feel who knew

anything of the matterthat Bishop Proudie was singularly ignorant of his knowledge of men, and that he

showed his ignorance on this special occasion. 'If he intended to name two such men he should at any rate

have named three,' said Dr Thorne. 'Mr Thumble and Mr Quiverful will simply be outvoted on the first day,

and after that will give in their adhesion to the majority.' 'Mr Thumble indeed!' Lady Lufton had said, with

much scorn in her voice. To her thinking, it was absurd in the highest degree that such men as Dr Tempest

and her Mr Robarts should be asked to meet Mr Thumble and Mr Quiverful on a matter of ecclesiastical

business. Outvoted! Of course whey would be outvoted. Of course they would be so paralysed by fear at

finding themselves in the presence of real gentlemen, that they would hardly be able to vote at all. Old Lady

Lufton did not in fact utter words so harsh as these; but thoughts as harsh passed through her mind. The

reader therefore will understand that much interest was felt in the subject at Framley Court, where Lady

'They tell me,' said Lady Lufton, 'that both the archdeacon and Dr Tempest think it is right that a commission

'Mark says that the bishop could hardly do anything else,' rejoined Mrs Robarts.

'I daresay not, my dear. I suppose the bishop that somebody has near him to tell him what he may do and

what he may not do. It would be terrible to think of, if it were not so. But yet, when I hear that he has named

such men as Mr Thumble and Mr Quiverful, I cannot but feel that the whole diocese is disgraced.'

And from talking on the subject of the Crawleys, Lady Lufton soon advanced, first to a desire for some

action, and than to acting. 'I think, my dear, I will go over and see Mrs Crawley,' said Lady Lufton, the elder

to Lady Lufton the younger. Lady Lufton the younger had nothing to urge against this; but she did not offer

to accompany the elder Lady. I attempted to explain in the earlier part of this story that there still existed a

certain understanding between Mrs Crawley and Lord Lufton's wife, and that kindnesses had occasionally

passed from Framley Court to Hogglestock Parsonage; but on this occasion, Lady Luftonthe Lucy Robarts

that had once passed certain days of her life with the Crawleys at Hogglestockdid not choose to

accompany her motherinlaw; and therefore Mrs Robarts was invited to do so. 'I think it may comfort her to

know that she has our sympathy,' the elder woman said to the younger as they made their journey together.

When the carriage stopped before the little wickergate, from when a path led through a ragged garden from

the road to Mr Crawley's house, Lady Lufton hardly knew how to proceed. The servant came to the door of

the carriage, and asked for her orders. 'Hmm, ha, yes; I think I'll send in my card;and say that I hope

Mrs Crawley will be able to see me. Won't that be best; eh, Fanny?' Fanny, otherwise Mrs Robarts, said that

It was happily the case that Mr Crawley was not at home. Mr Crawley was away at Hoggle End, reading to

the brickmakers, or turning the mangles of their wives, or teaching them theology, or politics, or history, after

his fashion. In these days he spent, perhaps, the happiest hours of his life down at Hoggle End. I say that his

absence was a happy chance, because, had he been at home, he would certainly have said something, or done

something, to offend Lady Lufton. He would either have refused to see her, or when seeing her he would

have bade her hold her peace and not interfere with matters which did not concern her, ormore probable

stillhe would have sat still and sullen, and have spoken not at all. But he was away and Mrs Crawley sent

out word by the servant that she would be most proud to see her ladyship, if her ladyship would be pleased to

alight. Her ladyship did alight, and walked into the parsonage, followed by Mrs Robarts.

Grace was with her mother. Indeed Jane had been there also when the message was brought in, but she fled

into the back regions, overcome by shame as to her frock. Grace, I think, would have fled too, had she not

been bound in honour to support her mother. Lady Lufton, as she entered, was very gracious, struggling with

all the power of her womanhood so to carry herself that there should be no outwardly visible sign of her rank

or her wealthbut not altogether succeeding. Mrs Robarts, on her first entrance, said only a word or two of

greeting to Mrs Crawley, and kissed Grace, whom she had known intimately in early years. 'Lady Lufton,'

said Mrs Crawley, 'I am afraid this is a very poor place for you to come to; but you have known that of old,

'Sometimes I like poor places best,' said Lady Lufton. Then there was a pause, after which Lady Lufton

addressed herself to Grace, seeking some subject for immediate conversation. 'You have been down in

Allington, my dear, have you not?' Grace, in a whisper, said that she had. 'Staying with the Dales, I believe? I

know the Dales well by name, and I have always heard that they are charming people.'

'He is pretty wellnot quite strong. I daresay you know, Lady Lufton, that he has things to vex him?' Mrs

Crawley felt that it was the need of the moment that the only possible subject of conversation in that house

should be introduced; and therefore she brought it in at once, not loving the subject, but being strongly

conscious of the necessity. Lady Lufton meant to be goodnatured, and therefore Mrs Crawley would do all

'We feel so much for you and Mr Crawley,' said Mrs Robarts; 'and are so sure that your sufferings are

unmerited.' This was not discreet on the part of Mrs Robarts, as she was the wife of one of the clergymen

who had been selected to form the commission of inquiry; and so Lady Lufton told her on the way home.

'You are very kind,' said Mrs Crawley. 'We must only bear it with such fortitude as God will give us. We are

'And so He does my dear,' said her ladyship very solemnly. 'So He does. Surely you have felt that it is so?'

'I know that you struggle bravely. I hear of you, and I admire you for it, and I love you.' It was still the old

lady who was speaking and now she had at last been roused out of her difficulty as to words, and had risen

from her chair, and was standing before Mrs Crawley. 'It is because you do not complain, because you are so

great and so good, because your character is so high, and your spirit so firm, that I could not resist the

temptation of coming to you. Mrs Crawley, if you will let me be your friend, I shall be proud of your

'Do not talk to me after that fashion,' said Lady Lufton. 'If you do I shall be disappointed, and feel myself

thrown back. You know what I mean.' She paused for an answer; but Mrs Crawley had no answer to make.

She simply shook her head, not knowing why she did so. But we may know. We can understand that she had

felt that the friendship offered to her by Lady Lufton was an impossibility. She had decided within her own

breast that it was so, though she did not know that she had come to such decision. 'I wish you to take me at

my word, Mrs Crawley,' continued Lady Lufton. 'What can we do for you? We know that you are distressed.'

'And we know how cruel circumstances have been to you. Will you not forgive me for being plain?'

'Lady Lufton means,' said Mrs Robarts, 'that in asking you to talk openly of your affairs, she wishes you to

remember thatI think you know what I mean,' said Mrs Robarts, knowing very well herself what she did

'Lady Lufton is very kind,' said Mrs Crawley, 'and so are you, Mrs Robarts. I know how good you both are,

and for how much it behoves me to be grateful.' These words were very cold, and the voice in which they

were spoken were very cold. They made Lady Lufton feel that it was beyond her power to proceed with the

work of her mission in its intended spirit. It is ever so much easier to proffer kindness graciously than to

receive it with grace. Lady Lufton had intended to say, 'Let us be women together;women bound by

humanity, and not separated by rank, and let us open our hearts freely. Let us see how we may be of comfort

to each other.' And could she have succeeded in this, she would have spread out her little plans of succour

with so loving a hand that she would have conquered the woman before her. But the suffering spirit cannot

descend from its dignity of reticence. It has a nobility of its own, made sacred by many tears, by the flowing

of streams of blood from unseen wounds, which cannot descend from its dais to receive pity and kindness. A

consciousness of undeserved woe produces a grandeur of its own, with which the highsouled sufferer will

not easily part. Baskets full of eggs, pounds of eleemosynary butter, quarters of given pork, even

secondhand clothing from the wardrobe of some richer sistereven money, unsophisticated money, she

could accept. She had learned how that it was her portion of her allotted misery to take such thingsfor the

sake of her children and her husbandand to be thankful for them. She did take them and was thankful; and

in the taking she submitted herself to the rod of cruel circumstances; but she could not even yet bring herself

'Can we not do something to help you?' said Mrs Robarts. She would not have spoken but she perceived that

Lady Lufton had completed her appeal, and that Mrs Crawley did not seem prepared to answer it.

'You have done so much to help us,' said Mrs Crawley. 'The things you have sent us have been very

'I do not know what there is more,' said Mrs Crawley. 'A bit to eat and something to wear;that seems to be

'Of course it causes anxiety;but what can we do? It must be so. It cannot be put off or avoided. We have

made up our minds to it now, and almost wish that it would come quicker. If it were once over, I think that he

Then there was another lull in the conversation, and Lady Lufton began to be afraid that her visit would be a

failure. She thought that perhaps she might get on better if Grace were not in the room, and she turned over in

her mind various schemes for sending her away. And perhaps her task would be easier if Mrs Robarts also

could be banished for a time. 'Fanny, my dear,' she said at last, boldly, 'I know you have a little plan to

arrange with Miss Crawley. Perhaps you will be more likely to be successful if you can take a turn with her

alone.' There was not much subtlety in her ladyship's scheme; but it answered the proposed purpose, and the

two elder ladies were soon left face to face, so that Lady Lufton had a fair pretext for making another attempt.

'Dear Mrs Crawley,' she said, 'I do so long to say a word to you, but I fear that I may be thought to interfere.'

'I have asked your daughter and Mrs Robarts to go out because I can speak to you more easily alone. I wish I

'As a friend, I mean;as a real friend. If it should be the case, Mrs Crawley, that a jury should give a verdict

against your husbandwhat will you do then? Perhaps I should not suppose that it is possible.'

'Of course we know that it is possible,' said Mrs Crawley. Her voice was stern, and there was in it a tone

almost of offence. As she spoke she did not look at her visitor, but sat with her face averted and her arms

'Yes;it is possible,' said Lady Lufton. 'I suppose there is not one in the county who does not truly wish it

may not be so. But it is right to be prepared for all alternatives. In such case have you thought what you will

'Put in prison,' said Mrs Crawley, speaking very quickly, bringing out the words with a sharp eagerness that

was quite unusual to her. 'They will send him to gaol. Is it not so, Lady Lufton?'

'I suppose it would be so; not for long I should hope; but I presume that such would be the sentence for some

'And the house, and the living; would they let him have them again when he came out?'

'Ah; that I cannot say. That will depend much, probably, in what these clergymen will report. I hope he will

'I do not know. I cannot say. It is probable that he may do so. It is not easy for a man so injured as he has

been, and one at the same time so great in intelligence, to submit himself gently to such inquiries. When ill is

'I cannot say. I do not know. When I think of it I see that there is nothing but ruin on every side. What is the

use of talking of it? Do not be angry, Lady Lufton, if I say that it is of no use.'

'But I desire to be of useof real use. If it should be the case, Mrs Crawley, that your husband should

'Yes, I mean imprisoned. If it should be so, then do you bring yourself and your childrenall of themover

'Yes, you can. You have not heard me yet. It would not be a comfort to you in such a home as that to sit at

table with people who are partly strangers to you. But there is a cottage nearly adjoining to the house, which

you shall have all to yourself. The bailiff lived in it once, and others have lived in it who belong to the place;

but it is empty now and it shall be made comfortable.' The tears were now running down Mrs Crawley's face,

so that she could not answer a word. 'Of course it is my son's property, and not mine, but he has

commissioned me to say that it is most heartily at your service. He begs that in such a case you will occupy it.

And I beg the same. And your old friend Lucy has desired me also to ask you in her name.'

'You must think better of it, my dear. I do not scruple to advise you, because I am older than you, and have

experience of the world.' This, I think, taken in the ordinary sense of the words, was a boast on the part of

Lady Lufton, for which but little true pretence existed. Lady Lufton's experience of the world at large was not

perhaps extensive. Nevertheless she knew what one women might offer to another, and what one woman

might receive from another. 'You would be better over with me, my dear, than you could be elsewhere. You

will not misunderstand me if I say that, under such circumstances, it would do your husband good that you

and your children should be under our protection during his period of temporary seclusion. We stand well in

the county. Perhaps I ought not to say so, but I do not know how otherwise to explain myself; and when it is

known, by the bishop and others, that you have come to us during that sad time, it will be understood that we

think well of Mr Crawley, in spite of anything a jury may say of him. Do you see that, my dear? And we do

think well of him. I have known of your husband for many years, though I have not personally had the

pleasure of much acquaintance with him. He was over at Framley once at my request, and I had great

occasion to respect him. I do respect him; and I shall feel grateful to him if he will allow you to put yourself

and your children under my wing, as being an old woman, should this misfortune fall upon him. We hope that

In this way Lady Lufton at last made her speech and opened out the proposal with which she had come laden

to Hogglestock. While she was speaking Mrs Crawley's shoulder was still turned to her; but the speaker could

see that the quick tears were pouring themselves down the cheeks of the woman whom she addressed. There

was a downright honesty of thoroughgoing wellwishing charity about the proposition which overcame Mrs

Crawley altogether. She did not feel for a moment that it would be possible for her to go to Framley in such

circumstances as those which had been suggested. As she thought of it all at the present moment, it seemed to

her that her only appropriate home during the terrible period which was coming upon her, would be under the

walls of the prison in which her husband would be incarcerated. But she fully appreciated the kindness which

had suggested a measure, which, if carried into execution, would make the outside world feel that her

husband was respected in the county, despite the degradation to which he was subjected. She felt all this, but

'Say that it shall be so, my dear,' continued Lady Lufton. 'Just give me one nod of assent, and the cottage shall

But Mrs Crawley did not give the nod of assent. With her face still averted, while the tears were still running

down her cheeks, she muttered but a word or two. 'I could not do that, Lady Lufton; I could not do that.'

'You know at any rate what my wishes are, and as you become calmer you will think of it. There is quite time

enough, and I am speaking of an alternative which may never happen. My dear friend Mrs Robarts, who is

now with your daughter, wishes Miss Crawley to go over to Framley Parsonage while this inquiry among the

clergymen is going on. They all say it is the most ridiculous thing in the worldthis inquiry. But the bishop

you know is so silly! We all think that if Miss Crawley would go for a week or so to Framley Parsonage, that

it will show how happy we all are to receive her. It should be while Mr Robarts is employed in his part of the

work. What do you say, Mrs Crawley? We at Framley are all clearly of the opinion that it will be best that it

should be known that the people in the county uphold your husband. Miss Crawley would be back, you

But even to this proposition Mrs Crawley could give no assent, though she expressed no direct dissent. As

regarded her own feelings, she would much preferred to have been left to live through her misery alone; but

she could not but appreciate the kindness which endeavoured to throw over and hers in their trouble the aegis

of firstrate county respectability. She was saved from the necessity of giving a direct answer to this

suggestion by the return of Mrs Robarts and Grace herself. The door was opened slowly, and they crept into

the room as though they were aware that their presence would be hardly welcomed.

'Is the carriage there, Fanny?' said Lady Lufton. 'It is almost time for us to think of returning home.'

Mrs Robarts said that the carriage was standing within twenty yards of the door.

'Then I think we will make a start,' said Lady Lufton. 'Have you succeeded in persuading Miss Crawley to

Mrs Robarts made no answer to this, but looked at Grace; and Grace looked down upon the ground.

'I have spoken to Mrs Crawley,' said Lady Lufton, 'and they will think of it.' Then the two ladies took their

'She is too brokenhearted to say anything.' Lady Lufton answered. 'Should it happen that he is convicted, we

The picture still progressed up in Mrs Dobbs Broughton's room, and the secret was still kept, or supposed to

be kept. Miss Van Siever was, at any rate, certain that her mother had heard nothing of it, and Mrs Broughton

reported from day to day that her husband had not as yet interfered. Nevertheless there was in these days a

great gloom upon the Dobbs Broughton household, so much so that Conway Dalrymple had more than once

suggested to Mrs Broughton that the work should be discontinued. But the mistress of the house would not

consent to this. In answer to these offers, she was wont to declare in somewhat mysterious language, that any

misery coming upon herself was a matter of moment to nobodyhardly even to herself, as she was quite

prepared to encounter moral and social death without delay, if not an absolute physical demise; as to which

latter alternative, she seemed to think that even that might not be so far distant as some people chose to

believe. What was the cause of the gloom over the house neither Conway Dalrymple nor Miss Van Siever

understood, and to speak the truth Mrs Broughton did not quite understand the cause herself. She knew well

enough, no doubt, that her husband came home always sullen, and sometimes tipsy, and that things were not

going well in the City. She had never understood much about the City, being satisfied with an assurance that

had come to her in the early days from her friends, that there was a mine of wealth in Hook Court, from

whence would always come for her use, house and furniture, a carriage and some horses, dresses and jewels,

which latter, if not quite real, should be manufactured with the best sham substitute known. Soon after her

brilliant marriage with Mr Dobbs Broughton, she had discovered that the carriage and horses, and the sham

jewels, did not lift her so completely into a terrestrial paradise as she had taught herself to expect that they

would do. Her brilliant drawingroom, with Dobbs Broughton for a companion, was not an elysium. But

though she had found out early in her married life that something was still wanting to her, she had by no

means confessed to herself that the carriage and horses and sham jewels were bad, and it can hardly be said

that she had repented. She had endeavoured to patch up matters with a little romance, and then had fallen

upon Conway Dalrymplemeaning no harm. Indeed, love with her, as it never could have meant much

good, was not likely to mean much harm. That somebody should pretend to love her, to which pretence she

might reply by a pretence of friendshipthis was the little excitement which she craved, and by which she

had once flattered herself that something of an elysium might yet be created for her. Mr Dobbs Broughton

had unreasonably expressed a dislike to this innocent amusementvery unreasonably, knowing, as he ought

to have known, that he himself did so very little towards providing the necessary elysium by any qualities of

his own. For a few weeks this interference from her husband had enhanced the amusement, giving an

additional excitement to the game. She felt herself to be woman misunderstood and illused; and to some

women there is nothing so charming as a little mild illusage, which does not interfere with their creature

comforts, with their clothes, or their carriage, or their sham jewels; but suffices to afford them the indulgence

of a grievance. Of late, however, Mr Dobbs Broughton had become a little too rough in his language, and

things had gone uncomfortably. She suspected that Conway Dalrymple was not the only cause of all this. She

had an idea that Mr Musselboro and Mrs Van Siever had it in their power to make themselves unpleasant, and

that they were exercising this power. Of his business in the City her husband never spoke to her, nor she to

him. Her own fortune had been very small, some couple of thousand pounds or so, and she conceived that she

had no pretext on which she could, unasked, interrogate him about his money. She had no knowledge that

marriage of itself had given her the right to such interference; and had such knowledge been hers she would

have had no desire to interfere. She hoped that the carriage and sham jewels would be continued to her; but

she did not know how to frame any question on the subject. Touching the other difficultythe Conway

Dalrymple difficultyshe had her ideas. The tenderness of her friendship had been trodden upon by and

outraged by the rough foot of an overbearing husband, and she was illused. She would obey. It was

becoming to her as a wife that she should submit. She would give up Conway Dalrymple, and would induce

himin spite of his violent attachment to herselfto take a wife. She herself would choose a wife for him.

She herself would, with suicidal hands, destroy the love of her own life, since an overbearing, brutal husband

demanded that it should be destroyed. She would sacrifice her own feelings, and do all in her power to bring

Conway Dalrymple and Clara Van Siever together. If, after that, some poet did not immortalise her friendship

in Byronic verse, she certainly would not get her due. Perhaps Conway Dalrymple would himself become a

poet in order that this might be done properly. For it must be understood that, though she expected Conway

Dalrymple to marry, she expected also that he should Byronically wretched after his marriage on account of

But there was certainly something wrong over and beyond the Dalrymple difficulty. The servants were not as

civil as they used to be, and her husband, when she suggested to him a little dinnerparty, snubbed her most

unmercifully. The giving of dinnerparties had been his glory, and she had made the suggestion simply with

the view of pleasing him. 'If the world were going round, the wrong way, a woman would still want a party,'

he had said, sneering at her. 'It was of you I was thinking, Dobbs,' she replied; 'not of myself. I care little for

such gatherings.' After that she retired to her own room with a romantic tear in each eye, and told herself that,

had chance thrown Conway Dalrymple into her way before she had seen Dobbs Broughton, she would have

been the happiest woman in the world. She sat for a while looking into vacancy, and thinking that it would be

very nice to break her heart. How should she set about it? Should she take to her bed and grow thin? She

would begin by eating no dinner for ever so may days altogether. At lunch her husband was never present,

and therefore the broken heart could be displayed at dinner without much positive suffering. In the meantime

she would implore Conway Dalrymple to get himself married with as little delay as possible, and she would

lay upon him her positive order to restrain himself from any word of affection addressed to herself. She, at

any rate, would be pure, highminded, and selfsacrificingalthough romantic and poetic also, as was her

The picture was progressing, and so also, as it had come about, was the loveaffair between the artist and his

model. Conway Dalrymple had begun to think that he might, after all, do worse than make Clara Van Siever

his wife. Clara Van Siever was handsome, and undoubtedly clever, and Clara Van Siever's mother was

certainly rich. And, in addition to this, the young lady herself began to like the man into whose society she

was thrown. The affair seemed to flourish, and Mrs Dobbs Broughton should have been delighted. She told

Clara, with a very serious air, that she was delighted, bidding Clara, at the same time, to be very cautious, as

men were so fickle, and as Conway Dalrymple, though the best fellow in the world, was not, perhaps,

altogether free from that common vice of men. Indeed, it might have been surmised, from a word or two

which Mrs Broughton allowed to escape, that she considered poor Conway to be more than ordinarily

afflicted in that way. Miss Van Siever at first only pouted, and said that there was nothing in it. 'There is

something in it, my dear, certainly,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton; 'and there can be no earthly reason why there

should not be a great deal in it.' 'There is nothing in it,' said Miss Van Siever, impetuously; 'and if you will

continue to speak of Mr Dalrymple in that way, I must give up the picture.' 'As for that,' said Mrs Broughton,

'I conceive that we are both of us bound to the young man now, seeing that he has given so much time to the

Mrs Broughton also told Conway Dalrymple that she was delightedoh, so much delighted! He had

obtained permission to come in one morning before the time of sitting, so that he might work at his canvas

independently of his model. As was his custom, he made his own way upstairs and commenced his work

alonehaving been expressly told by Mrs Broughton that she would not come to him till she brought Clara

with her. But she did go up to the room in which the artist was painting, without waiting for Miss Van Siever.

Indeed, she was at this time so anxious as the future welfare of her two young friends that she could not

restrain herself from speaking either to the one of to the other, whenever any opportunity for such speech

came round. To have left Conway Dalrymple at work upstairs without going to him was impossible to her. So

she went, and then took the opportunity of expressing to her friend her ideas as to his past and future conduct.

'Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed,' she said, standing before the easel, and looking at the

'I never can tell myself till a picture is finished whether it is going to be good or not,' said Dalrymple,

'I am sure this will be good,' she said, 'and I suppose it is because you have thrown so much heart into it. It is

not mere industry that will produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even genius; more than this is required. The

heart of the artist must be thrust with all its gushing tides into the performance.' By this time he knew all the

tones of her voice and their various meanings, and immediately became aware that at the present moment she

was intent upon something beyond the picture. She was preparing for a little scene, and was going to give

him some advice. He understood it all, but as he was really desirous of working at his canvas, and was rather

averse to having a scene at the moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her. 'It is the heart that gives

success,' she said, he was considering how he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for the

'On elbowgreasehard work, that isand I must work hard now if I mean to take advantage of today's

sitting. The truth is, I don't give enough hours work to it.' And he leaned upon his stick, and daubed away

bristly at the background, and then stood for a moment looking at his canvas with his head a little on one

side, as though he could not withdraw his attention for a moment from the thing he was doing.

'You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should not speak to you.'

'I won't interrupt you at your work. What I have to say is perhaps of no great moment. Indeed, words between

'Do you not? I do. They should never amount to morethey can never amount to more than the common

ordinary courtesies of life; what I call the greetings and goodbyeings of conversation.' She said this in a low,

melancholy tone of voice, not intending to be in any degree jocose. 'How seldom is it that conversation

'Don't you think it does?' said Conway, stepping back and taking another look at the picture. 'I find myself

'Politics, you know, and art, and a little scandal, and the wars, with a dozen other things, make talking easy

enough, I think. I grant you this, that it is very often a great bore. Hardly a day passes that I don't wish to cut

He began to perceive that she was determined to talk about herself, and that there was no remedy. He dreaded

it, not because he did not like the woman, but from a conviction that she was going to make some comparison

between her and Clara Van Siever. In his ordinary humour he liked a little pretence at romance, and was

rather good at that sort of lovemaking which in truth means anything but love. But just now he was really

thinking of matrimony, and had on this very morning acknowledged to himself that he had become

sufficiently attached to Clara Van Siever to justify him in asking her to be his wife. In his present mood he

was not anxious for one of those tilts with blunted swords and halfsevered lances in the list of Cupid of

which Mrs Dobbs Broughton was so fond. Nevertheless, if she insisted that he should now descend into the

arena and go through the paraphernalia of a mock tournament, he must obey her. It is the hardship of men

that when called upon by women for romance, they are bound to be romantic, whether the opportunity serves

them or not. A man must produce romance, or at least submit to it, when duly summoned, even though he

should have a sore throat or a headache. He is a brute if he decline such an encounterand feels that, should

he so decline persistently, he will ever after be treated as a brute. There are many Potiphar's wives who never

dream of any mischief, and Josephs who are very anxious to escape, though they are asked to return only

whisper for whisper. Mrs Dobbs Broughton had asked him whether he wished that her tongue should be cut

out, and he had of course replied that her words had always been a joy to himnever a trouble. It occurred to

him as he made his little speech that it would only have served her right if he had answered her in quite

another strain; but she was a woman, and was young and pretty, and was entitled to flattery. 'They have

always been a joy to me,' he said, repeating his last words as he strove to continue his work.

'A deadly joy,' she replied, not quite knowing what she herself meant. 'A deadly joy, Conway. I wish with all

'I do not. I will never wish away the happiness of my life, even should it be followed by misery.'

'You are a man, and if trouble comes upon you, you can bear it on your shoulders. A woman suffers more,

'It's the same with a man when he has a wife.' Hitherto the conversation had had so much of milkandwater

in its composition that Dalrymple found himself able to keep it up and go on with his background at the same

time. If she could only be kept in the same dim cloud of sentiment, if the hot rays of the sun of romance could

be kept from breaking through the mist till Miss Van Siever should come, it might still be well. He had

known her to wander about within the clouds for an hour together, without being able to find her way into the

light. 'It's all the same with a man when he has got a wife,' he said. 'Of course one has to suffer for two, when

'I mean nothing of the kind, Conway; and you must know that I do not, unless your feelings are indeed

'I rather fancy not,' he said. 'I think they are pretty nearly as sharp as ever.'

'I know mine are. Oh, how I wish I could rid myself of them! But it cannot be done. Age will not blunt

He had determined not to talk about herself if the subject could be in any way avoided; but now he felt that he

was driven up into a corner;now he was forced to speak to her of her own personality. 'You have no

'Age does not go by years,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton. 'We all know that. "His hair was grey, but not with

years." Look here, Conway,' and she moved back her tresses from off her temples to show him that there

were grey hairs behind. He did not see them; and had they been very visible she might not perhaps have been

so ready to exhibit them. 'No one can say that length of years has blanched them. I have no secrets from you

''Twas the fault of your eyes, then, for there are plenty of them. And what is it that has made them grey?'

'Hot rooms! No, Conway, it does not come from heated atmosphere. It comes from a cold heart, a chilled

heart, a frozen heart, a heart that is all ice.' She was getting out of the cloud into the heat now, and he could

only hope that Miss Van Siever would come soon. 'The world is beginning with you, Conway, and you are as

old as I am. It is ending with me, and yet I am as young as you are. But I do not know why I talk of this. It is

simply follyutter folly. I had not meant to speak of myself; but I did wish to say a few words to you of

'NayI will make no such promise. That I will always have a friend's feeling for you, a friend's interest in

your welfare, a friend's triumph in your successthat I will promise. But friendly words, Conway, are

'No, not by youcertainly not by you. I did not mean that. I did not expect that you should misinterpret

them.' Then she laughed hystericallya little low, gurgling, hysterical laugh; and after that she wiped her

eyes, and then she smiled, and then she put her hand very gently upon his shoulder. 'Thank God, Conway, we

He had made a blunder, and it was necessary that he should correct it. His watch was lying in the trough of

his easel, and he looked at it and wondered why Miss Van Siever was not there. He had tripped, and he must

make a little struggle and recover his step. 'As I said before, it shall never be misunderstood by me. I have

never been vain enough to suppose for a moment that there was any other feelingnot for a moment. You

women can be so careful, while we men are always off our guard! A man loves because he cannot help it; but

a woman has been careful, and answers himwith friendship. Perhaps I am wrong to say that I never

thought of winning anything more; but I never think of winning more now.' Why the mischief didn't Miss

Van Siever come! In another five minutes, despite himself, he would be on his knees, making a mock

declaration, and she would be pouring forth the vial of her mock wrath, or giving him mock counsel as to the

restraint of his passion. He had gone through it all before, and was tired of it; but for his life he did not know

'I'm not speaking of myself now. I have learned to think so little of myself, as even to be indifferent to the

feeling of injury you are doing me. My life is a blank, and I almost think that nothing can hurt me further. I

have not heart left enough to break; no, not enough to be broken. It is not of myself that I am thinking, when I

ask you how do you dare to address my in such language. Do you not know that it is an injury to another?'

'To what other?' asked Conway Dalrymple, whose mind was becoming rather confused, and who was not

'To that poor girl who is coming here now, who is devoted to you, and to whom, I do not doubt, you have

uttered words which ought to have made it impossible to speak to me as you spoke not a moment since.'

Things were becoming very grave and difficult. They would have been very grave, indeed, had not some god

saved him by sending Miss Van Siever to his rescue at this moment. He was beginning to think what he

would say in answer to the accusation now made, when his eager ear caught the sound of her step upon the

stairs; and before the pause in conversation which the circumstances admitted had given place to the

necessity for further speech, Miss Van Siever had knocked at the door and had entered the room. He was

rejoiced, and I think that Mrs Broughton did not regret the interference. It is always well that these little

dangerous scenes should be brought to sudden ends. The last details of such romances, if drawn out to their

natural conclusions, are apt to be uncomfortable, if not dull. She did not want him to go down on his knees,

'Clara, I began to think you were never coming,' said Mrs Broughton, with her sweetest smile.

'I began to think so myself also,' said Clara. 'And I believe this must be the last sitting, or, at any rate, the last

'Is anything the matter at home?' said Mrs Broughton, clasping her hands together.

'Nothing very much; mamma asked me a question or two this morning, and I said I was coming here. Had she

'She does not always make herself very intelligible. She complains without telling you what she complains of.

But she muttered something about artists which was not complimentary, and I suppose therefore she has a

suspicion. She stayed ever so late this morning, and we left the house together. She will ask some direct

'Let us make the best of our time, then,' said Dalrymple; and the sitting was arranged; Miss Van Siever went

down on her knees with her hammer in her hand, and the work began. Mrs Broughton had twisted a turban

round Clara's head, as she always did on these occasions, and assisted to arrange the drapery. She used to tell

herself as she did so, that she was like Isaac, piling the fagots for her own sacrifice. Only Isaac had piled

them in ignorance, and she piled them conscious of the sacrificial flames. And Isaac had been saved; whereas

it was impossible that the catching of any ram in any thicket would save her. But, nevertheless, she arranged

the drapery with all her skill, piling the fagots ever so high for her own pyre. In the meantime Conway

Dalrymple painted away, thinking more of his picture than he did of one woman or of the other.

After a while when Mrs Broughton had piled the fagots as high as she could pile them, she got up from her

seat and prepared to leave the room. Much of the piling consisted, of course, in her own absence during a

portion of these sittings. 'Conway,' she said, as she went, 'if this is to be the last sitting, or the last but one,

you should make the most of it.' Then she threw upon him a very peculiar glance over the head of the

kneeling Jael, and withdrew. Jael, who in those moments would be thinking more of the fatigue of her

position than anything else, did not at all take home to herself the peculiar meaning of her friend's words.

Conway Dalrymple understood them thoroughly, and thought that he might as well take the advice given to

him. He had made up his mind to propose to Miss Van Siever, and why should he not do so now? He went on

with his brush for a couple of minutes without saying a word, working as well as he could work, and then

resolved that he would at once begin the other task. 'Miss Van Siever,' he said, 'I am afraid you are tired?'

'Not more than usually tired. It is fatiguing to be slaying Sisera by the hour together. I do get to hate this

block.' The block was the dummy by which the form of Sisera was supposed to be typified.

'Another sitting will about finish it,' said he, 'so that you need not positively distress yourself now. Will you

rest yourself for a minute or two?' He had already perceived that the attitude in which Clara was posed before

him was not one in which an offer of marriage could be received and replied to with advantage.

'Thank you, I am not tired yet,' said Clara, not changing the fixed glance of national wrath with which she

'But I am. There; we will rest for a moment.' Dalrymple was aware that Mrs Dobbs Broughton, though she

was very assiduous in piling her fagots, never piled them for long together. If he did not make haste she

would be back upon them before he could get his word spoken. When he put down his brush, and got up from

his chair, and stretched out his arm as a man does when he ceases for a moment from his work, Clara of

course got up also, and seated herself. She was used to her turban and her drapery, and therefore thought of it

not at all; and he also was used to it, seeing her in it two or three times a week; but now that he intended to

accomplish a special purpose, the turban and drapery seemed to be in the way. 'I do so hope you will like the

'I don't think I shall. But you will understand that it is natural that a girl should not like herself in such a

'I don't know why. I can understand that you specially should not like the picture; but I think that most

'What; for telling the truth? No, indeed.' He was standing opposite to his easel, looking at the canvas, shifting

his head about so as to change the lights, and observing critically this blemish and that; and yet he was all the

while thinking how he had best carry out his purpose. 'It will have been a prosperous picture to me,' he said at

'I am told that all you do is successful nowmerely because you do it. That is the worst of success.'

'That when won by merit it leads to further success, for the gaining of which no merit is necessary.'

'It may be so in my case. If it is not, I shall have a very poor chance. Clara, I think you must know that I am

'Indeed I am not. As for success in my profession, far as I am from thinking I merit it, I feel tolerably certain

'I am in the way of doing so. Perhaps one out of ten struggling artists is successful, and for him the profession

is very charming. It is certainly a sad feeling that there is so much of chance in the distribution of the prizes.

It is a lottery. But one cannot complain of that when one has drawn the prize.' Dalrymple was not a man

without selfpossession, nor was he readily abashed, but he found it easier to talk of his possession than to

make his offer. The turban was his difficulty. He had told himself over and over again within the last five

minutes, that he would have long since said what he had to say had it not been for that turban. He had been

painting all his life from living modelsfrom women dressed up in this or that costume, to suit the

necessities of his picturebut he had never made love to any of them. They had been simply models to him,

and now he found that there was a difficulty. 'Of that prize,' he said, 'I have made myself tolerably sure; but

as to the other prize, I do not know. I wonder whether I am to have that.' Of course Miss Van Siever

understood well what was the prize of which he was speaking; and as she was a young woman with a will and

purpose of her own, no doubt she was ready prepared with an answer. But it was necessary that the question

should be put to her in properly distinct terms. Conway Dalrymple certainly had not put his question in

properly distinct terms at present. She did not choose to make any answer to his last words; and therefore

simply suggested that as time was pressing he had better get on with his work. 'I am quite ready now,' said

'Stop half a moment. How much more you are thinking of the picture than I am! I do not care twopence for

the picture. I will slit the canvas from top to bottom without a groanwithout a single inner groanif you

'Just to show you that it is not for the sake of the picture that I come here. Clara' Then the door was

opened, and Isaac appeared, nature could pile no more. Conway Dalrymple, who had made his way almost up

to Clara's seat, turned round sharply towards his easel, in anger, at having been disturbed. He should have

been more grateful for all that his Isaac had done for him, and have recognised the fact that the fault had been

with himself. Mrs Broughton had been twelve minutes out of the room. She had counted them to be

fifteenhaving no doubt made a mistake as to threeand had told herself that with such a one as Conway

Dalrymple, with so much of the work ready done to his hand for him, fifteen minutes should have been amply

sufficient. When we reflect what her own thoughts must have been during the intervalwhat it is to have to

pile up such fagots as those, how she was, as it were, giving away a fresh morsel of her own heart during each

minute that she allowed Clara and Conway Dalrymple to remain together, it cannot surprise us that her eyes

should have become dizzy, and that she should not have counted the minutes with accurate correctness.

Dalrymple turned to his picture angrily, but Miss Van Siever kept her seat and did not show the slightest

'My friends,' said Mrs Broughton, 'this will not do. This is not working; this is not sitting.'

'Mr Dalrymple had been explaining to me the precarious nature of an artist's profession,' said Clara.

'Not in a general way, perhaps; but to prove the truth of his words he was going to treat Jael worse than Jael

'She might take that as she like.' After this there was another genuine sitting, and the real work went on as

though there had been no episode. Jael fixed her face, and held her hammer as though her mind and heart

were solely bent on seeming to be slaying Sisera. Dalrymple turned his eyes from the canvas to the model,

and from the model to the canvas, working with his hand all the while, as though that last pathetic 'Clara' had

never been uttered; and Mrs Dobbs Broughton reclined on a sofa, looking at them and thinking of her own

singularly romantic position, till her mind was filled with a poetic frenzy. In one moment she resolved that

she would hate Clara as a woman was never hated by woman; and then there were daggers, and poisoncups,

and strangling cords in her eye. In the next she was as firmly determined that she would love Mrs Conway

Dalrymple as woman was never loved by woman; and then she saw herself kneeling by a cradle, and tenderly

nursing a baby, of which Conway was to be the father and Clara the mother. And so she went to sleep.

For some time Dalrymple did not observe this; but at last there was a little soundeven the illnature of

Miss Demolines could hardly have called it a snoreand he became aware that for practical purposes he and

Miss Van Siever were again alone together. 'Clara,' he said in a whisper. Mrs Broughton instantly aroused

herself from her slumbers, and rubbed her eyes. 'Dear, dear, dear,' she said, 'I declare it's past one. I'm afraid I

'Yes, one more,' said he. It was always understood that he and Clara should not leave the house together, and

therefore he remained painting when she left the room. 'And now, Conway,' said Mrs Broughton, 'I suppose

'Noof course not. You look at it in another light, no doubt. Everything is beginning for you. But you must

pardon me, for my heart is distracteddistracteddistracted!' Then she sat down upon the floor, and burst

into tears. What was he to do? He thought that the woman should either give him up altogether, or not give

him up. All this fuss about it was irrational! He would not have made love to Clara Van Siever in her room if

'Maria,' he said, in a very grave voice, 'any sacrifice that is required on my part on your behalf I am ready to

'No sir; the sacrifices shall all be made by me. It is the part of a woman to be ever sacrificial!' Poor Mrs

Dobbs Broughton! 'You shall give up nothing. The world is at your feet, and you shall have

everythingyouth, beauty, wealth, station, lovelove; friendship also, if you will accept it from one so

poor, so broken, so secluded as I shall be.' At each of the last words there had been a desperate sob; and as

she was still crouching in the middle of the room, looking up into Dalrymple's face while he stood over her,

the scene was one which had much in it that transcended the doings of everyday life, much that would be ever

memorable, and much, I have no doubt, that was thoroughly enjoyed by the principal actor. As for Conway

Dalrymple, he was so secondrate a personage in the whole thing, that it mattered little whether he enjoyed it

or not. I don't think he did enjoy it. 'And now, Conway,' she said, 'I will give you some advice. And when in

afterdays you shall remember this interview, and reflect how that advice was given youwith what

solemnity.'here she clasped both her hands together'I think that you will follow it. Clara Van Siever will

'Clara Van Siever will now become your wife,' repeated Mrs Broughton in a louder voice, impatient of

opposition. 'Love her. Cleave to her. Make her flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. But rule her! Yes,

rule her! Let her be your second self, but not your first self. Rule her! Love her. Cleave to her. Do not leave

her alone, to feed on her own thoughts as I have doneas I have been forced to do. Now go. No, Conway,

not a word; I will not hear a word. You must go, or I must.' Then she rose quickly from her lowly attitude,

and prepared herself for a dart to the door. It was better by far that he should go, and so he went.

An American when he has spent a pleasant day will tell you that he has had a 'good time'. I think that Mrs

Dobbs Broughton, if she had ever spoken the truth of that day's employment would have acknowledged that

she had had a 'good time'. I think that she enjoyed her morning's work. But as for Conway Dalrymple, I doubt

whether he did enjoy his morning's work. 'A man may have too much of this sort of thing, and then he

becomes very sick of his cake.' Such was the nature of his thoughts as he returned to his own abode.

Of course it came to pass that Lily Dale and Emily Dunstable were soon very intimate, and that they saw each

other every day. Indeed, before long they would have been living together in the same house had it not been

that the squire had felt reluctant to abandon the independence of his own lodgings. When Mrs Thorne had

pressed her invitation for the second, and then for the third time, asking them both to come to her large house,

he had begged his niece to go and leave him alone. 'You need not regard me,' he had said, speaking not with

the whining voice of complaint, but with that thin tinge of melancholy which was usual to him. 'I am so much

alone down in Allington, that you need not mind leaving me.' but Lily would not go on those terms, and

therefore they still lived together in the lodgings. Nevertheless Lily was every day at Mrs Thorne's house, and

thus a great intimacy grew up between the girls. Emily Dunstable had neither brother nor sister, and Lily's

nearest male relative in her own degree was now Miss Dunstable's betrothed husband. It was natural therefore

that they should at any rate try to like each other. It afterwards came to pass that Lily did go to Mrs Thorne's

house, and she stayed there for a while; but when that occurred the squire had gone back to Allington.

Among other generous kindnesses Mrs Thorne insisted that Bernard should hire a horse for his cousin Lily.

Emily Dunstable rode daily, and of course Captain Dale rode with her;and now Lily joined the party.

Almost before she knew what was being done she found herself provided with hat and habit and horse and

whip. It was a way with Mrs Thorne that they who came within the influence of her immediate sphere should

be made to feel that the comforts and luxuries arising from her wealth belonged to a common stock, and were

the joint property of them all. Things were not offered and taken and talked about, but they made their

appearance, and were used as a matter of course. If you go to stay at a gentleman's house you understand that,

as a matter of course, you will be provided with meat and drink. Some hosts furnish you also with cigars. A

small number give you stabling and forage for you horse; and a very select few mount you on hunting days,

and send you out with a groom and a second horse. Mrs Thorne went beyond all others in this openhanded

hospitality. She had enormous wealth at her command, and had but few of those allabsorbing drains upon

her wealth which in this country make so many rich men poor. She had no family propertyno place to keep

up in which she did not live. She had no retainers to be maintained because they were retainers. She had

neither sons nor daughters. Consequently she was able to be lavish in her generosity; and as her heart was

very lavish, she would have given her friends gold to eat had gold been good for eating. Indeed there was no

measure in her givingunless when the idea came upon her that the recipient of her favours was trading on

Lily Dale had not liked the idea of being fitted out thus expensively. A box at the opera was all very well, as

it was not procured especially for her. And tickets for other theatres did not seem to come unnaturally for a

night or two. But her spirit had militated against the hat and the habit and the horse. The whip was a little

present from Emily Dunstable, and that of course was accepted with a good grace. Then there came the horse

as though from the heavens; there seemed to be ten horses, twenty horses, if anybody needed them. All

these things seemed to flow naturally into Mrs Thorne's establishment, like air through the windows. It was

very pleasant, but Lily hesitated when she was told that a habit was to be given to her. 'My dear old aunt

insists,' said Emily Dunstable. 'Nobody ever thinks of refusing anything from her. If you only knew what

some people will take, and some people will even ask, who have nothing to do with her at all!' 'But I have

nothing to do with herin that way I mean,' said Lily. 'Oh, yes, you have,' said Emily. 'You and Bernard are

as good as brother and sister, and Bernard are as good as man and wife, and my aunt and I are as good as

mother and daughter. So you see, in a sort of way you are a child of the house.' So Lily accepted the habit;

but made a stand at the hat, and paid for that out of her own pocket. When the squire had seen Lily on

horseback he asked her questions about it. 'It was a hired horse, I suppose?' he said. 'I think it came direct

from heaven,' said Lily. 'What do you mean, Lily?' said the squire angrily. 'I mean that when people are so

rich and goodnatured as Mrs Thorne it is not good inquiring where things come from. All that I know is that

the horses come out of Potts' liverystable. They talk of Potts as if he were a goodnatured man who

provides horses for the world without troubling anybody.' Then the squire spoke to Bernard about it, saying

that he would insist on defraying his niece's expenses. But Bernard swore that he should give his uncle no

assistance. 'I would not speak to her about such a thing for all the world,' said Bernard. 'Then I shall,' said the

In those days Lily thought much of Johnny Eamesgave to him perhaps more of that thought which leads to

love than she had ever given him before. She still heard the Crawley question discussed every day. Mrs

Thorne, as we all know, was at this time a Barsetshire personage, and was of course interested in Barsetshire

subjects; and she was specially anxious in the matter, having strong hopes with reference to the marriage of

Major Grantly and Grace, and strong hopes also that Grace's father might escape the fangs of justice. The

Crawley case was constantly in Lily's ears, and as constantly she heard high praise awarded to Johnny for his

kindness in going after the Arabins. 'He must be a fine young fellow,' said Mrs Thorne, 'and we'll have him

down at Chaldicotes some day. Old Lord De Guest found him out and made a friend of him, and old Lord De

Guest was no fool.' Lilly was not altogether free from a suspicion that Mrs Thorne knew the story of Johnny's

love and was trying to serve Johnnyas other people had tried to do, very ineffectually. When this suspicion

came upon her she would shut her heart against her lover's praises, and swear that she would stand by those

two letters which she had written in her book at home. But the suspicion would not always be there, and there

did come upon her a conviction that her lover was more esteemed among men and women than she had been

accustomed to believe. Her cousin, Bernard Dale, who certainly was regarded in the world as somebody,

spoke of him as an equal; where in former days Bernard had always regarded Johnny Eames as standing low

in the world's regards. Then Lily, when alone, would remember a certain comparison which she once made

between Adolphus Crosbie and John Eames, when neither of the men had as yet pleaded their cause to her,

and which had been very much in favour of the former. She had then declared that Johnny was a 'mere clerk'.

She had a higher opinion of him nowa much higher opinion, even though he could never be more to her

In these days Lily's new ally, Emily Dunstable, seemed to Lily to be so happy! There was in Emily a

complete realisation of that idea of antenuptial blessedness, of which Lily had often thought so much.

Whatever Emily did she did for Bernard; and, to give Captain Dale his due, he received all the sweets which

were showered upon him with becoming signs of gratitude. I suppose it is always the case at such times that

the girl has the best of it, and on this occasion Emily Dunstable certainly made the most of her happiness. 'I

do envy you,' Lily said one day. The acknowledgement seemed to have been extorted from her involuntarily.

She did not laugh as she spoke, or follow up what she had said with other words intended to take away the

joke of what she had utteredhad it been a joke; but she sat silent, looking at the girl who was rearranging

'Then go and get an "it" for yourself. Why don't you have an "it" for yourself? You can have an "it"

'No I can't,' said Lily. 'Things have gone wrong with me. Don't ask me anything more about it. Pray don't. I

'I do tell you so. I have been a fool to say anything about it. However, I have got over my envy now, and am

'Things have gone wrong with me.' She repeated the same words to herself over and over again. With all the

efforts which she had made she could not quite reconcile herself to the two letters which she had written in

the book. This coming up to London, and riding in the Park, and going to the theatres, seemed to unsettle her.

At home she had schooled herself down into quiescence, and made herself think that she believed that she

was satisfied with the prospects of her life. But now she was all astray again, doubting about herself,

hankering after something over and beyond that which seemed to be allotted to herbut, nevertheless,

I must not, if I can help it, let the reader suppose that she was softening her heart to John Eames because John

Eames was spoken well of in the world. But with all of us, in the opinion which we form of those around us,

we take unconsciously the opinion of others. A woman is handsome because the world says so. Music is

charming to us because it charms others. We drink our wines with other men's palates, and look at our

pictures with other men's eyes. When Lily heard John Eames praised by all around her, it could not be but

that she should praise him toonot out loud, as others did, but in the silence of her heart. And then his

constancy to her had been so perfect! If that other one had never come! If it could be that she might begin

again, and that she might be spared that episode in her life which had brought him and her together!

'When is Mr Eames going to be back?' Mrs Thorne said at dinner one day. On this occasion the squire was

dining at Mrs Thorne's house; and there were three or four others thereamong them a Mr Harold Smith,

who was in Parliament, and his wife, and John Eames's especial friend, Sir Raffle Buffle. The question was

addressed to the squire, but the squire was slow to answer, and it was taken up by Sir Raffle Buffle.

'He'll be back on the 15th,' said the knight, 'unless he means to play truant. I hope he won't do that, as his

absence has been a terrible inconvenience to me.' Then Sir Raffle explained that John Eames was his private

secretary, and that Johnny's journey to the Continent had been made with, and could not have been made

without, his sanction. 'When I came to hear of the story, of course I told him that he must go. "Eames," I said,

"take the advice of a man who knows the world. Circumstanced as you are, your are bound to go." And he

'I never keep a fellow to his desk who has really go important business elsewhere,' said Sir Raffle. 'The

country, I say, can afford to do as much as that for her servants. But then I like to know that the business is

'Perhaps so; perhaps I am; perhaps that is the opinion which they have of me at the Treasury. But you were

'I don't suppose I should have known much about it, as you call it, if I had stayed till Doomsday.'

'I daresay not; I daresay not. Men who begin as late as you did never know what official like really means.

'It's not a profession I should like unless where it's joined with politics,' said Harold Smith.

'But then it's apt to be so short,' said Sir Raffle Buffle. Now it had once happened in the life of Mr Harold

Smith that he had been in a Ministry, but, unfortunately, that Ministry had gone out almost within a week of

the time of Mr Smith's adhesion. Sir Raffle and Mr Smith had known each other for many years, and were

'I'd sooner be a horse in a mill than have to go to an office every day,' said Mrs Smith, coming to her

husband's assistance. 'You, Sir Raffle, have kept yourself fresh and pleasant through it all; but who besides

'I hope I am fresh,' said Sir Raffle; 'and as for pleasantness, I will leave that for you to determine.'

The conversation had strayed away from John Eames, and Lily was disappointed. It was a pleasure to her

when people talked of him in her hearing, and as a question or two had been asked about him, making him

the hero of the moment, it seemed to her that he was being robbed of his due when the little amenities

between Mr and Mrs Harold Smith and Sir Raffle Buffle banished his name from the circle. Nothing more,

however, was said of him at dinner, and I fear that he would have been altogether forgotten throughout the

evening, had not Lily Dale referrednot to him, which she could not possibly have been induced to dobut

to the subject of his journey. 'I wonder whether poor Mr Crawley will be found guilty?' She said to Sir Raffle

'I am afraid he will; I am afraid he will,' said Sir Raffle; 'and I fear, my dear Miss Dale, that I must go further

'Ladies are always tenderhearted,' said Sir Raffle, 'and especially young ladiesand pretty young ladies. I

do not wonder that such should be your opinion. But you see, Miss Dale, a man of business has to look at

these things in a business light. What I want to know is, where did he get that cheque? He is bound to be

'It is very well for Eames to go abroadthough, upon my word, I don't know whether I should not have

given him different advice if I had known how much I was to be tormented by his absence. The thing couldn't

have happened at a more unfortunate time;the Ministry going out and everything. But, as I was saying, it is

all very well for him to do what he can. He is related to them, and is bound to save the honour of his relations

if it be possible. I like him for going. I always liked him. As I said to my friend De Guest, "That young man

will make his way." And I rather fancy that the chance word which I spoke then to my valued old friend was

not thrown away in Eames's favour. But, my dear Miss Dale, where did Mr Crawley get that cheque? That's

what I want to know. If you can tell me that, then I can tell you whether or no he will be acquitted.'

Lily did not feel a strong prepossession in favour of Sir Raffle, in spite of his praise of John Eames. The harsh

voice of the man annoyed her, and his egotism offended her. When, much later in the evening, his character

came on for discussion between herself and Mrs Thorne and Emily Dunstable, she had not a word to say in

his favour. But still she had been pleased to meet him, because he was the man with whom Johnny's life was

most specially concerned. I think that a portion of her dislike to him arose from the fact that in continuing the

conversation he did not revert to his private secretary, but preferred to regale her with stories of his own

doings in wonderful cases which had partaken of interest similar to that which now attached itself to Mr

Crawley's case. He had known a man who had stolen a hundred pounds, and had never been found out; and

another man who had been arrested for stealing twoandsixpence which was found afterwards sticking to a

bit of butter at the bottom of a plate. Mrs Thorne had heard all this, and had answered him, 'Dear me, Sir

Raffle,' she had said, 'what a great many thieves you have had amongst your acquaintance!' This had rather

It had been arranged on this morning that Mr Dale should return to Allington and leave Lily with Mrs

Thorne. Some special need of his presence at home, real or assumed, had arisen, and he had declared that he

must shorten his stay in London by about half the intended period. The need would not have been so

pressing, probably, had he not felt that Lily would be more comfortable with Mrs Thorne than in his lodgings

in Sackville Street. Lily had at first declared that she would return with him, but everybody had protested

against this. Emily Dunstable had protested against it very stoutly; Mrs Dale herself had protested against it

by letter; and Mrs Thorne's protest had been quite imperious in its nature. 'Indeed,' my dear, you'll do nothing

of the kind. I'm sure your mother wouldn't wish it. I look upon it as quite essential that you and Emily should

learn to know each other.' 'But we do know each other; don't we, Emily?' said Lily. 'Not quite well yet,' said

Emily. Then Lily had laughed, and so the matter was settled. And now, on this present occasion, Mr Dale was

at Mrs Thorne's house for the last time. His conscience had been perplexed about Lily's horse, and if anything

was to be said it must be said now. The subject was very disagreeable to him, and he was angry with Bernard

because Bernard had declined to manage it for him after his own fashion. But he had told himself so often

that anything was better than a pecuniary obligation, that he was determined to speak his mind to Mrs

Thorne, and to beg her to allow him to have his way. So he waited till the Harold Smiths were gone, and Sir

Raffle Buffle, and then, when Lily was apart with Emilyfor Bernard Dale had left themhe found himself

'I'm sure she is gratefulvery grateful; and so am I. She and Bernard have been brought up so much together

'Exactlythat's just what I mean. Blood's thicker than water; isn't it? Emily's child, if she has one, will be

'Her firstcousin once removed,' said the squire, who was accurate in these matters. Then he drew himself up

in his seat and compressed his lips together, and prepared himself for his task. It was very disagreeable.

Nothing, he thought, could be more disagreeable. 'I have a little thing to speak about,' he said at last, 'which I

'I'm not very easily offended, and I don't know how I could possibly be offended about her.'

'I'm an oldfashioned man, Mrs Thorne, and don't know much about the ways of the world. I have always

been down in the country, and maybe I have prejudices. You won't refuse to humour one of them, I hope?'

'She is riding every day with your niece,' said the squire, thinking it best to stick to his own point.

'Very likely. I don't doubt it. I do not in the least disapprove her riding. But'

'I should be much obliged if I might be allowed to pay the liverystable keeper's bill.'

'I daresay it may sound odd, but as I have a fancy about it, I'm sure you'll gratify me.'

'Of course I will. I'll remember it. I'll make it all right with Bernard. Bernard and I have no end of

accountsor shall have before longand we'll make an item of it. Then you can arrange with Bernard

Mr Dale as he got up to go away felt that he was beaten, but he did not know how to carry the battle any

further on that occasion. He could not take out his purse and put down the cost of the horse on the table. 'I

will then speak to my nephew about it,' he said, very gravely, as he went away. And he did speak to his

nephew about it, and even wrote to him more than once. But it was all to no purpose. Mr Potts could not be

induced to give a separate bill, andso said Bernardswore at last that he would furnish no account to

That night Lily took leave of her uncle and remained at Mrs Thorne's house. As things were now arranged

she would, no doubt, be in London when John Eames returned. If he should find her in townand she told

herself that is she was in town he certainly would find herhe would, doubtless, repeat to her the offer he

had so often made before. She never ventured to tell herself that she doubted as to the answer to be made to

him. The two letters were written in the book, and must remain there. But she felt that she would have had

more courage for persistency down at Allington than she would be able to summon to her assistance up in

London. She knew she would be weak, should she be found by him alone in Mrs Thorne's drawingroom. It

would be better for her to make some excuse and go home. She was resolved that she would not become his

wife. She could not extricate herself from the dominion of a feeling which she believed to be love for another

man. She had given a solemn promise both to her mother and to John Eames that she would not marry that

other man; but in doing so she had made a solemn promise to herself that she would not marry John Eames.

She had sworn it and would keep her oath. And yet she regretted it! In writing home to her mother the next

day, she told Mrs Dale that all the world was speaking well of John Eamesthat John had won for himself a

reputation of his own, and was known far and wide to be a noble fellow. She could not keep herself from

praising John Eames, though she knew that such praise might, and would, be used against her at some future

'I wish you would make up your mind to have an "it" for yourself,' Emily Dunstable said to her again that

Lily had heard nothing as to the difficulty about her horse, and could therefore enjoy her exercise without the

drawback of feeling that her uncle was subject to an annoyance. She was in the habit of going out every day

with Bernard and Emily Dunstable, and their party was generally joined by others who would meet them at

Mrs Thorne's house. For Mrs Thorne was a very hospitable woman, and there were many who liked well

enough to go to her house. Late in the afternoon there would be a great congregation of horses before the

doorsometimes as many as a dozen; and then the cavalcade would go off into the Park, and there it would

become scattered. As neither Bernard nor Miss Dunstable were unconscionable lovers, Lily in these

scatterings did not often find her self neglected or lost. Her cousin would generally remain with her, and as in

those days she had no 'it' of her own she was well pleased that he should do so.

But it so happened that on a certain afternoon she found herself riding in Rotten Row alone with a certain

stout gentleman whom she constantly met at Mrs Thorne's house. His name was Onesiphorus Dunn, and he

was actually called Siph by his intimate friends. It had seemed to Lily that everybody was an intimate friend

of Mr Dunn's, and she was in daily fear lest she should make a mistake and call him Siph herself. Had she

done so it would not have mattered in the least. Mr Dunn, had he observed it at all, would neither have been

flattered or angry. A great many young ladies about London did call him Siph, and to him it was quite natural

that they should do so. He was an Irishman, living on the best of everything in the world, with apparently no

fortune of his own, and certainly never earning anything. Everybody liked him, and it was admitted on all

sides that there was no safer friend in the world, either for young ladies or young men, than Mr Onesiphorus

Dunn. He did not borrow money, and he did not encroach. He did like being asked out to dinner, and he did

think that they to whom he gave the light of his countenance in town owed him the return of a week's run in

the country. He neither shot, nor hunted, nor fished, nor read, and yet he was never in the way in any house.

He did play billiards, and whist, and croquetvery badly. He was a good judge of wine, and would

occasionally condescend to look after the bottling of it on behalf of some very intimate friend. He was a great

friend of Mrs Thorne's, with whom he always spent ten days in the autumn at Chaldicotes.

Bernard and Emily were not insatiable lovers, but, nevertheless, Mrs Thorne had thought it proper to provide

a fourth in the ridingparties, and had put Mr Dunn on this duty. 'Don't bother yourself about it, Siph,' she

had said; 'only if those lovers should go off philandering out of sight, our little country lassie might find

herself to be nowhere in the Park.' Siph had promised to make himself useful, and had done so. There had

generally been so large a number in their party that the work imposed on Mr Dunn had been very light. Lily

had never found out that he had been especially consigned to her as her own cavalier, but had seen quite

enough of him to be aware that he was a pleasant companion. To her, thinking, as she ever was thinking,

about Johnny Eames, Siph was much more agreeable than might have been a younger man who would have

Thus when she found herself riding alone in Rotten Row with Siph Dunn, she was neither disconcerted nor

displeased. He had been talking to her about Lord De Guest, whom he had knownfor Siph knew

everybodyand Lily had begun to wonder whether he knew John Eames. She was making up her mind that

she would say something about the Crawley matternot intending of course to mention John Eames's

namewhen suddenly her tongue was paralysed and she could not speak. At that moment they were

standing near a corner, where a turning path made an angle in the iron rails, Mr Dunn having proposed that

they should wait there for a few minutes before they returned home, as it was probable that Bernard and Miss

Dunstable might come up. They had been there for some five or ten minutes, and Lily had asked her first

question about the Crawleysinquiring of Mr Dunn whether he had heard of a terrible accusation which had

been made against a clergyman in Barsetshirewhen on a sudden her tongue was paralysed. As they were

standing, Lily's horse was turned towards the diverging path, whereas Mr Dun was looking the other way,

towards Achilles and Apsley house. Mr Dunn was nearer the railings, but though they were thus looking

different ways they were so placed that each could see the face of the other. Then, on a sudden, coming

slowly towards her along the diverging path and leaning on the arm of another man, she sawAdolphus

She had never seen him since a day on which she had parted from him with many kisseswith warm,

pressing, eager kissesof which she had been nowhat ashamed. He had then been to her almost as her

husband. She had trusted him entirely, and had thrown herself into his arms with full reliance. There is often

much of reticence on the part of a woman towards a man to whom she is engaged, something also of

shamefacedness occasionally. There exists a shadow of doubt, at least of that hesitation which shows that in

spite of vows the woman knows that a change may come, and that provision for such possible steps backward

should always be within her reach. But Lily had cast all such caution to the winds. She had given herself to

the man entirely, and had determined that she would sink or swim, stand or fall, live or die, by him and by his

truth. He had been as false as hell. She had been in his arms, clinging to him, kissing him, swearing that her

only pleasure in the world was to be with himwith him, her treasure, her promised husband; and within a

month, a week, he had been false to her. There had come upon her crushing tidings, and she had for days

wondered at herself that they had not killed her. But she had lived, and had forgiven him, which had been

answered as the reader knows. But she had never seem him since the day on which she had parted from him

at Allington, without a doubt as to his faith. Now he was before her, walking on the footpath, almost within

He did not recognise her, but as he passed on he did recognise Mr Onesiphorus Dunn, and stopped to speak to

him. Or it might have been that Crosbie's friend Fowler Pratt stopped with this special objectfor Siph Dunn

was an intimate friend of Fowler Pratt's. Crosbie and Siph were also acquainted, but in those days Crosbie did

not care much for stopping his friends in the Park or elsewhere. He had become moody and discontented, and

was generally seen going about the world alone. On this special occasion he was having a little special

'Well, yes; I have gone in a good deal for cavalry work this last month. I've been lucky enough to have a

young lady to ride with me.' This he said in a whisper, which the distance of Lily justified. 'How d'ye do,

'I've something to do besides going to look or to be looked at,' said Crosbie. Then he raised his eyes and saw

Lily's sideface, and recognised her. Had he seen her before he had been stopped on his way I think he would

have passed on, endeavouring to escape observation. But as it was, his feet had been arrested before he knew

of her close vicinity, and now it would seen that he was afraid of her, and was flying from her, were he at

once to walk off, leaving his friend behind him. And he knew that she had seen him, and had recognised him,

and was now suffering from his presence. He could not but perceive that it was so from the fixedness of her

face, and from the constrained manner in which she gazed before her. His friend Fowler Pratt had never seen

Miss Dale, though he knew very much of her history. Siph Dunn knew nothing of the history of Crosbie and

his love, and was unaware that he and Lily had ever seen each other. There was thus no help near her to

'When a man has any work to do in the world,' said Siph, 'he always boasts of it to his acquaintance, and

curses his luck to himself. I have nothing to do and can go about to see and be seen;and I must own that I

Crosbie was still looking at Lily. He could not help himself. He could not take his eyes from off her. He

could see that she was as pretty as ever, that she was but very little altered. She was, in truth, somewhat

stouter than in the old days, but of that he took no special notice. Should he speak to her? Should he try to

catch her eye, and then raise his hat? Should he go up to her horse's head boldly, and ask her to let bygones

be bygones? He had an idea that of all courses which he could pursue that was the one which she would

approve the bestwhich would be most efficacious for him, if with her anything from him might have any

efficacy. But he could not do it. He did not know what words he might best use. Would it become him

humbly to sue to her for pardon? Or should he strive to express his unaltered love by some tone of his voice?

Or should he simply ask her after her health? He made one step towards her, and he saw that the face became

more rigid and more fixed than before, and then he desisted. He told himself that he was simply hateful to

her. He thought that he could perceive that there was no tenderness mixed with her unabated anger.

At this moment Bernard Dale and Emily came close upon him, and Bernard saw him at once. It was through

Bernard that Lily and Crosbie had come to know each other. He and Bernard Dale had been fast friends in old

times, and had, of course, been bitter enemies since the day of Crosbie's treachery. They had never spoken

since, though they had often seen each other, and Dale was not at all disposed to speak to him now. The

moment that he recognised Crosbie he looked across to his cousin. For an instant, an idea flashed across him

that he was there by her permissionwith her assent; but it required no second glance to show him that this

was not the case. 'Dunn,' he said, 'I think we will ride on,' and he put his horse into a trot. Siph, whose ear was

very accurate, and who knew that something was wrong, trotted on with him, and Lily, of course, was not left

'Nothing specially the matter,' he replied; 'but you were standing in company with the greatest blackguard that

'Bernard!' said Lily, flashing on him with all the fire which her eyes could command. Then she remembered

that she could not reprimand him for the offence of such abuse in such a company; so she reined in her horse

Siph Dunn, with his wicked cleverness, knew the whole story at once, remembering that he had once heard

something of Crosbie having behaved very ill to someone before he married Lady Alexandra De Courcy. He

stopped his horse also, falling a little behind Lily, so that he might not be supposed to have seen her tears, and

began to hum a tune. Emily also, though not wickedly clever, understood something of it. 'If Bernard says

anything to make you angry, I will scold him,' she said. Then the two girls rode on together in front, while

'Pratt,' said Crosbie, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder as soon as the party had ridden out of hearing,

'No; she gave me no chance. She was there but a moment. But it was herself. It seems so odd to me that I

should have been thus so near her again.' If there was any man to whom Crosbie could have spoken freely

about Lily Dale it was this man, Fowler Pratt. Pratt was the oldest friend he had in the world, and it had

happened that when he first woke to the misery that he had prepared for himself in throwing over Lily and

betrothing himself to his late wife, Pratt had been the first person to whom he had communicated his sorrow.

Not that he had ever been really open in his communications. It was not given to such men as Crosbie to

speak openly of themselves to their friends. Nor, indeed, was Fowler Pratt one who was fond of listening to

such tales. He had no such tales to tell of himself, and he thought that men and women should go through the

world quietly, not subjecting themselves or their acquaintances to anxieties and emotions from peculiar

conduct. But he was conscientious, and courageous also as well as prudent, and he had dared to tell Crosbie

that he was behaving very badly. He had spoken his mind plainly, and had then given all the assistance in his

He paused a moment before he replied, weighing, like a prudent man, the force of the words he was about to

utter. 'It is much better as it is,' he said. 'It is much better that you should be strangers for the future.'

'I do not see that at all,' said Crosbie. They were both leaning on the rails, and so they remained for the next

'I feel sure of it. What could come of any renewed intercourseeven if she would allow it?'

'And do you think that you would be happy with her, or she with you, after what has passed?'

'I do not. It might be possible that she could bring herself to marry you. Women delight to forgive injuries.

They like the excitement of generosity. But she could never forget that you had a former wife, or the

circumstances under which you were married. And as for yourself, you would regret it after the first month.

How could you ever speak to her of your love without speaking also of your shame? If a man does marry he

This was very severe, but Crosbie showed no anger. 'I think I should do so,' he said'after a while.'

'It is like enough that she might not regard thatexcept that she would feel that if you could not afford to

marry her when you were unembarrassed, you can hardly afford to do so when you are over your head and

'After all that has come and gone you would hardly seek Lily Dale because you want to marry a fortune.'

'You are too hard on me, Pratt. You know that my only reason for seeking her is that I love her.'

'I do not mean to be hard. But I have a very strong opinion that the quarrels of lovers, when they are of so

very serious a nature, are a bad basis for the renewal of love. Come, let us go and dress for dinner. I am going

to dine with Mrs Thorne, the millionaire, who married a country doctor, and who used to be called Miss

'I never dine out anywhere now,' said Crosbie. And then they walked out of the Park together. Neither of

them, of course, knew that Lily Dale was staying at the house at which Fowler was going to dine.

Lily, as she rode home, did not speak a word. She would have given worlds to be able to talk, but she could

not even make a beginning. She heard Bernard and Siph Dunn chatting behind her, had hoped they would

continue to do so till she was safe within the house. They all used her well, for no one tried to draw her into

conversation. Once Emily said to her, 'Shall we trot a little, Lily?' And then they moved on quickly, and the

misery was soon over. As soon as she was upstairs in the house she got Emily by herself, and explained all

the mystery in a word or two. 'I fear I have made a fool of myself. That was the man to whom I was once

engaged.' 'What, Mr Crosbie?' said Emily, who had heard the whole story from Bernard. 'Yes, Mr Crosbie;

pray do not say a word of it to anybodynot even to your aunt. I am better now, but I was such a fool. No,

dear; I won't go into the drawingroom. I'll go upstairs, and come down ready for dinner.'

When she was alone she sat down in her habit and declared to herself that she certainly would never become

the wife of Mr Crosbie. I do not know why she should make such a declaration. She had promised her mother

and John Eames that she would not do so, and that promise would certainly have bound her without any

further resolutions on her part. But, to tell the truth, the vision of the man had disenchanted her. When last

she had seen him he had been as it were a god to her; and though, since that day, his conduct to her had been

as ungodlike as it well might be, still the memory of the outward signs of his divinity had remained with her.

It is difficult to explain how it had come to pass that the glimpse which she had had of him should have

altered so much within her mind;why she should so suddenly have come to regard him in an altered light.

It was not simply that he looked to be older, and because his face was careworn. It was not only that he had

lost that look of an Apollo which Lily had once in her mirth attributed to him. I think it was chiefly that she

herself was older, and could no longer see a god in such a man. She had never regarded John Eames as being

gifted with divinity, and had therefore always been making comparisons to his discredit. Any such

comparison now would tend quite the other way. Nevertheless she would adhere to the two letters in her

book. Since she had seen Mr Crosbie she was altogether out of love with the prospect of matrimony.

She was in the room when Mr Pratt was announced, and she at once recognised him as the man who had been

with Crosbie. And when, some minutes afterwards, Siph Dunn came into the room, she could see that in their

greeting allusion was made to the scene in the Park. But still it was probable that this man would not

recognise her, and, if he did so, what would it matter? There were twenty people to sit down to dinner, and

the chances were that she would not be called upon to exchange a word with Mr Pratt. She had now

recovered herself, and could speak freely to her friend Siph, and when Siph came and stood near her she

thanked him graciously for his escort in the Park. 'If it wasn't for you, Mr Dunn, I really think I should not get

any riding at all. Bernard and Miss Dunstable have only one thing to think about, and certainly I am not the

one thing.' She thought it probable that if she could keep Siph close to her, Mrs Thorne, who always managed

things herself, might apportion her out to be led to dinner by her goodnatured friend. But the fates were

averse. The time had now come, and Lily was waiting her turn. 'Mr Fowler Pratt, let me introduce to Miss

Lily Dale,' said Mrs Thorne. Lily could perceive that Mr Pratt was startled. The sign he gave was the least

possible sign in the world; but still it sufficed for Lily to perceive it. She put her hand upon his arm, and

walked down with him to the diningroom without giving him the slightest cause to suppose that she knew

'It seems to me that the people who don't go there to walk, but to stand still,' said Lily. 'I cannot understand

how so many people can bear to loiter about in that wayleaning on the rails and doing nothing.'

'It is about as good as riding, and costs less money. That is all that can be said for it. Do you live chiefly in

'Oh, dear no; I live altogether in the country. I'm only up here because a cousin is going to be married.'

'When they have been joined together in holy matrimony, I shall go down to the country, and never, I

'Not as a residence, I think,' said Lily. 'But of course one's likings and dislikings on such a matter depend on

circumstances. I live with my mother, and all my relatives live near us. Of course I like the country best,

'Young ladies so often have a different way of looking at this subject. I shouldn't wonder if Miss Dunstable's

views about it were altogether of another sort. Young ladies generally expect to be taken away from their

'But you see I expect to be left with mine,' said Lily. After that she turned as much away from Mr Fowler

Pratt as she could, having taken an aversion to him. What business had he to talk to her about being taken

away from uncles and aunts? She had seen him with Mr Crosbie, and it might be possible that they were

intimate friends. It might be that Mr Pratt was asking questions in Mr Crosbie's interests. Let that be as it

might, she would answer no more questions from him further than ordinary good breeding should require of

'She is a nice girl, certainly,' said Fowler Pratt to himself, as he walked home, 'and I have no doubt would

make a good, ordinary, everyday wife. But she is not such a paragon that a man should condescend to grovel

That night Lily told Emily Dunstable the whole of Mr Crosbie's history as far as she knew it, and also

explained her new aversion to Mr Fowler Pratt. 'They are very great friends,' said Emily. 'Bernard has told me

so; and you may be sure that Mr Pratt knew the whole history before he came here. I am so sorry that my aunt

'It does not signify in the least,' said Lily. 'Even if I were to meet Mr Crosbie I don't think I should make such

Then there was a pause, during which Lily sat with her face resting on both her hands. 'It is wonderful how

'I don't know what you were, but I don't think you can have changed much. You no doubt have suffered too,

'Oh, as for that, I have done very well. I think I'll go to bed now. The riding makes me so sleepy.'

It was at last arranged that the five clergymen selected should meet at Dr Tempest's house at Silverbridge to

make inquiry and report to the bishop whether the circumstances connected with the cheque for twenty

pounds were of such a nature as to make it incumbent on him to institute proceedings against Mr Crawley in

the Court of Arches. Dr Tempest had acted upon the letter which he had received from the bishop, exactly as

though there had been no meeting at the palace, no quarrel to the death between him and Mrs Proudie. He

was a prudent man, gifted with the great power of holding his tongue, and had not spoken a word, even to his

wife, of what had occurred. After such a victory our old friend the archdeacon would have blown his own

trumpet loudly among his friends. Plumstead would have heard of it instantly, and the paean would have been

sung out in the neighbouring parishes of Eiderdown, Stogpingum, and St Ewolds. The High Street of

Barchester would have known of it, and the very bedesmen in Hiram's Hospital would have told among

themselves the terrible discomfiture of the bishop and his lady. But Dr Tempest spoke no word of it to

anybody. He wrote letters to the two clergymen named by the bishop, and himself selected two others out of

his own rural deanery, and suggested to them all a day at which a preliminary meeting should be held at his

own house. The two who were invited by him were Mr Oriel, the rector of Greshamsbury, and Mr Robarts,

the vicar of Framley. They all assented to the proposition, and on the day named assembled themselves at

It was now April, and the judges were to come into Barchester before the end of the month. What then could

be the use of this ecclesiastical inquiry exactly at the same time? Men and women declared that it was a

double prosecution, and that a double prosecution for the same offence was a course of action opposed to the

feelings and the traditions of the country. Miss Anne Prettyman went so far as to say that it was

unconstitutional, and Mary Walker declared that no human being except Mrs Proudie would ever have been

guilty of such cruelty. 'Don't tell me about the bishop, John,' she said, 'the bishop is a cypher.' 'You may be

sure Dr Tempest would not have a hand in it if it were not right,' said John Walker. 'My dear Mr John,' said

Miss Anne Prettyman, 'Dr Tempest is as hard as a bar of iron, and always was. But I am surprised that Mr

In the meantime, at the palace, Mrs Proudie had been reduced to learn what was going on from Mr Thumble.

The bishop had never spoke a word to her respecting Mr Crawley since that terrible day on which Dr

Tempest had witnessed his imbecilityhaving absolutely declined to answer when his wife had mentioned

the subject. 'You won't speak to me about it, my dear?' she had said to him, when he had thus declined,

remonstrating more in sorrow than in anger. 'No; I won't,' the bishop had replied; 'there has been a great deal

too much talking about it. It has broken my heart already, I know.' These were very bad days in the palace.

Mrs Proudie affected to be satisfied with what was being done. She talked to Mr Thumble about Mr Crawley

and the cheque, as though everything were arranged quite to her satisfactionas though everything, indeed,

had been arranged by herself. But everybody about the house could see that the manner of the woman was

altogether altered. She was milder than usual with the servants and was almost too gentle in her usage of her

husband. It seemed as though something had happened to frighten her and break her spirit, and it was

whispered about through the palace that she was afraid that the bishop was dying. As for him, he hardly left

his own sittingroom in these days, except when he joined the family at breakfast and at dinner. And in his

study he did little or nothing. He would smile when his chaplain went to him, and give some trifling verbal

directions; but for days he scarcely ever took a pen in his hands, and though he took up many books he read

hardly a page. How often he told his wife in those days that he was brokenhearted, no one but his wife ever

'What has happened that you should speak like that?' she said to him once. 'What has broken your heart?'

'Oh, Tom,' she said, going back into the memory of very far distant days in her nomenclature, 'how can you

speak to me so cruelly as that! That it should come to that between you and me after all!'

'Did you ever know a woman who liked to be turned out of a room in her own house?' said Mrs Proudie.

When Mrs Proudie had condescended so far as this, it must be admitted that in those days there was a great

Mr Thumble, on the day before he went to Silverbridge, asked for an audience with the bishop in order that

he might receive instructions. He had been strictly desired to do this by Mrs Proudie, and had not dared to

disobey her injunctionsthinking, however, himself, that his doing so was inexpedient. 'I have got nothing

to say to you about it; not a word,' said the bishop crossly. 'I thought that perhaps you might like to see me

before I started,' pleaded Mr Thumble very humbly. 'I don't want to see you at all,' said the bishop; 'you are

going there to exercise your own judgmentif you have got any; and you ought not to come to me.' After

that Mr Thumble began to think that Mrs Proudie was right, and that the bishop was near dissolution.

Mr Thumble and Mr Quiverful went over to Silverbridge together in a gig, hired from the Dragon of

Wantlyas to the cost of which there arose among them a not unnatural apprehension which amounted to

dismay. 'I don't mind it so much for once,' said Mr Quiverful, 'but if many such meetings are necessary, I for

one can't afford it, and I won't do it. A man with my family can't allow himself to be money out of pocket in

that way.' 'It is hard,' said Mr Thumble. 'She ought to pay it herself, out of her own pocket,' said Mr

Quiverful. He had had many concerns with the palace when Mrs Proudie was in the full swing of her

dominion, and had not as yet begun to suspect that there might possibly be change.

Mr Oriel and Mr Robarts were already sitting with Dr Tempest when the other two clergymen were shown

into the room. When the first greetings were over luncheon was announced, and while they were eating not a

word was said about Mr Crawley. The ladies of the family were not present, and the five clergymen sat round

the table alone. It would have been difficult to have got together five gentlemen less likely to act with one

mind and spirit;and perhaps it was all the better for Mr Crawley that it should be so. Dr Tempest himself

was a man peculiarly capable of exercising the function of a judge in the matter, had he sat alone as a judge;

but he was one who would be almost sure to differ from others who sat as equal assessors with him. Mr Oriel

was a gentleman at all points; but he was very shy, very reticent, and altogether uninstructed in the ordinary

daily intercourse of man with man. Anyone knowing him might have predicted of him that he would be sure

on such an occasion as this to be found floundering in a sea of doubts. Mr Quiverful was the father of a large

family, whose life had been devoted to fighting a cruel world on behalf of his wife and children. That fight he

had fought bravely; but it had left him no energy for any other business. Mr Thumble was a poor

creatureso poor a created that, in spite of a small restless ambition to be doing something, he was almost

cowed by the hard lines of Dr Tempest's brow. The Rev. Mr Robarts was a man of the world, and a clever

fellow, and did not stand in awe of anybodyunless it might be, in a very moderate degree, of his patrons

the Luftons, whom he was bound to respect; but his cleverness was not of the cleverness needed by a judge.

He was essentially a partisan, and would be sure to vote against the bishop in such a matter as this now before

him. There was a palace faction in the diocese, and an antipalace faction. Mr Thumble and Mr Quiverful

belonged to one, and Mr Oriel and Mr Robarts to the other. Mr Thumble was too weak to stick to his faction

against the strength of such a man as Dr Tempest. Mr Quiverful would be too indifferent to do sounless his

interest was concerned. Mr Oriel would be too conscientious to regard his own side on such an occasion as

this. But Mark Robarts would be sure to support his friends and oppose his enemies, let the case be what it

might. 'Now, gentlemen, if you please, we will go into the other room,' said Dr Tempest. They went into the

other room, and there they found five chairs arranged for them round the table. Not a word had as yet been

said about Mr Crawley, and no one of the four strangers knew whether Mr Crawley was to appear before

'Gentlemen,' said Dr Tempest, seating himself at once in an armchair placed at the middle of the table, 'I think

it will be well to explain to you at first what, as I regard the matter, is the extent of the work which we are

called upon to perform. It is of its nature very disagreeable. It cannot but be so, be it ever so limited. Here is a

brother clergyman and a gentleman, living among us, and doing his duty, as we are told, in a most exemplary

manner; and suddenly we hear that he is accused of theft. The matter is brought before the magistrates, of

whom I myself was one, and he was committed for trial. There is therefore prima facie evidence of his guilt.

But I do not think that we need to go into the question of his guilt at all.' When he said this, the other four all

looked up at him in astonishment. 'I thought that we had been summoned here for that purpose,' said Mr

Robarts. 'Not at all, as I take it,' said the doctor. 'Were we to commence any such inquiry, the jury would have

given their verdict before we could come to any conclusion; and it would be impossible for us to oppose that

verdict whether it declares this unfortunate gentleman to be innocent or to be guilty. If the jury shall say that

he is innocent, there is an end of the matter altogether. He would go back to his parish amidst the sympathy

'Of course it is,' said Mr Robarts. They all declared that was their desire, as a matter of course; and Mr

'But if he is found guilty, then will come that difficulty to the bishop, in which we are bound to give him any

'Of course we are,' said Mr Thumble, who, having heard his own voice once, and having liked the sound,

thought that he might creep into a little importance by using it on any occasion that opened itself for him.

'If you will allow me, sir, I will venture to state my views shortly as I can,' said Dr Tempest. 'That may

'In the case of his being found guilty,' continued the doctor, 'there will arise the question whether the

punishment awarded to him by the judge should suffice for ecclesiastical purposes. Suppose, for instance,

that he should be imprisoned for two months, should he be allowed to return to his living at the expiration of

Mr Oriel sat listening patiently, and Mr Thumble looked up to the doctor, expecting to hear some opinion

'There certainly are reasons why he should not,' said Dr Tempest; 'though I by no means say that those

reasons are conclusive in the present case. In the first place, a man who has stolen money can hardly be a

'Yes, that is true; but just bear with me for a moment. It cannot, at any rate, be thought that a clergyman

should come out of prison and go to his living without any notice from his bishop, simply because he has

already been punished by the common law. If this were so, a clergyman might be fined ten days running for

being drunk in the streetfive shillings each time and at the end of that time might set his bishop at

defiance. When a clergyman has shown himself to be utterly unfit for clerical duties, he must not be held to

be protected from ecclesiastical censure or from deprivation by the action of the common law.'

'Just so,' said Mr Thumble. Then Mr Robarts gave a look at Mr Thumble, and Mr Thumble retired into his

'That is the question as to which we are called upon to advise the bishop,' continued Dr Tempest. 'And I must

say that I think the bishop is right. If he were to allow the matter to pass by without noticethat is to say, in

the event of Mr Crawley being pronounced guilty by a juryhe would, I think, neglect in his duty. Now I

have been informed that the bishop has recommended Mr Crawley to desist from his duties till the trial be

'A bishop in almost all cases is entitled to the obedience of his clergy,' said Mr Oriel.

'Be that as it may,' continued the doctor, 'the bishop feels that it may be his duty to oppose the return of Mr

Crawley to his pulpit, and that he can oppose it in no other way than by proceeding against Mr Crawley under

the Clerical Offences Act. I propose, therefore, that we should invite Mr Crawley to attend here'

'I thought it useless to ask for his attendance until we had settled on our own course of action,' said Dr

Tempest. 'If we are all agreed, I will beg him to come here on this day week, when we will meet again. And

we will then ask him whether he will submit himself to the bishop's decision, in the event of the jury finding

him guilty. If he should decline to do so, we can only then form our opinion as to what will be the bishop's

duty by reference to the facts as they are elicited at the trial. If Mr Crawley should choose to make to us any

statement as to his own case, of course we shall be willing to receive it. That is my idea of what had better be

done; and now, if any gentleman has any other proposition to make, of course we shall be pleased to hear

him.' Dr Tempest, as he said this, looked round upon his companions, as though his pleasure, under the

'I don't suppose we can do anything better,' said Mr Robarts. 'I think it a pity, however, that any steps should

'The bishop has been placed in a very delicate position,' said Mr Thumble, pleading for his patron.

'I don't know the meaning of the word "delicate",' said Robarts. 'I think his duty was very clear, to avoid

'Nobody has anything else to propose?' said Dr Tempest. 'Then I will write to Mr Crawley and you,

gentlemen, will perhaps do me the honour of meeting me here at one o'clock this day week.' Then the

meeting was over, and the four clergymen having shaken hands with Dr Tempest in the hall, all promised that

they would return on that day week. So far, Dr Tempest had carried his point exactly as he might have done

'I shan't come again all the same, unless I know where I'm to get my expenses,' said Mr Quiverful, as he got

'I shall come,' said Mr Thumble, 'because I think it a duty. Of course it is a hardship.' Mr Thumble liked the

idea of being joined with such men as Dr Tempest, and Mr Oriel, and Mr Robarts, and would any day have

paid the expense of a gig from Barchester to Silverbridge out of his own pocket, for the sake of sitting with

'Well, yes; in a way, of course, that is quite true, Mr Quiverful; and when we know how very inadequate are

the incomes of the working clergy, we cannot but feel ourselves to be, if I may so say, put upon, when we

have to defray the expenses incidental to special duties out of our own pockets. I think, you knowI don't

mind saying this to youthat the palace should have provided us with a chaise and pair.' This was ungrateful

on the part of Mr Thumble, who had been permitted to ride miles upon miles to various outlying clerical

duties upon the bishop's wornout cob. 'You see,' continued Mr Thumble, 'you and I go specially to represent

the palace, and the palace ought to remember that. I think there ought to have been a chaise and pair; I do

'I don't care much what the conveyance is,' said Mr Quiverful; 'but I certainly shall pay nothing more out of

'The result will be that the palace will be thrown over if they don't take care,' said Mr Thumble. 'Tempest,

however, seems to be pretty steady. Tempest, I think, is steady. You see he is getting tired of parish work,

and would like to go into the close. That's what he is looking out for. Did you ever see such a fellow as that

Robartsjust look at him;quite indecent, wasn't he? He thinks he can have his own way in everything just

Mark Robarts and Caleb Oriel left Silverbridge in another gig by the same road, and soon passed their

brethren, as Mr Robarts was in the habit of driving a large, quickstepping horse. The last remarks were

being made as the dust from the vicar of Framley's wheels saluted the faces of the two slower clergymen. Mr

Oriel had promised to dine and sleep at Framley, and therefore returned in Mr Robarts's gig.

'I am not quite sure,' said Mr Oriel. 'I can understand that the bishop may have found a difficulty.'

'The bishop indeed! The bishop doesn't care two straws about it. It's Mrs Proudie! She has put her finger on

the poor man's neck because he has not put his neck beneath her feet; and now she thinks she can crush

himas she would crush you or me, if it were in her power. That's about the long and the short of the

'I know him;and am not all hard on him. She is hard upon him if you like. Tempest is fair. He is very fair,

and as long as no one meddles with him he won't do amiss. I can't hold my tongue always, but I often know

Dr Tempest said not a word to anyone on the subject, not even in his own defence. And yet he was sorely

tempted. On the very day of the meeting he dined at Mr Walker's in Silverbridge, and there submitted to be

talked to by all the ladies and most of the gentlemen present, without saying a word in his own defence. And

'Oh, Dr Tempest,' said Mary Walker, 'I am so sorry that you have joined the bishop.'

'Are you, my dear?' said he. 'It is generally thought well that a parish clergyman should agree with his

'Then it is the more fortunate that I shall be able to agree with him on this occasion.'

Major Grantly was present at the dinner, and ventured to ask the doctor in the course of the evening what he

thought would be done. 'I should not venture to ask such a question, Dr Tempest,' he said, 'unless I had the

'I don't know that I can tell you anything, Major Grantly,' said the doctor. 'We did not even see Mr Crawley

today. But the real truth is that he must stand or fall as the jury shall find him guilty or not guilty. It would be

the same in any profession. Could a captain in the army hold up his head in his regiment after he had been

'Neither can a clergyman,' said the doctor. 'The bishop can neither make him nor mar him. It is the jury that

At this time Grace Crawley was at Framley Parsonage. Old Lady Lufton's strategy had been quite intelligible,

but some people said that in point of etiquette and judgment and moral conduct, it was indefensible. Her

vicar, Mr Robarts, had been selected to be one of the clergymen who was to sit in ecclesiastical judgment

upon Mr Crawley, and while he was so sitting Mr Crawley's daughter was staying in Mr Robarts's house as

visitor with his wife. It might be that there was no harm in this. Lady Lufton, when the apparent impropriety

was pointed out to her by no less a person than Archdeacon Grantly, ridiculed the idea. 'My dear archdeacon,'

Lady Lufton had said, 'we all know the bishop to be such a fool and the bishop's wife to be such a knave, that

we cannot allow ourselves to be governed in this matter by ordinary rules. Do you not think that it is

expedient to show how utterly we disregard his judgment and her malice?' The archdeacon had hesitated

much before he spoke to Lady Lufton, whether he should address himself to her or to Mr Robartsor indeed

to Mrs Robarts. But he had become aware that the proposition as to the visit had originated with Lady Lufton,

and he had therefore decided on speaking to her. He had not condescended to say a word as to his son, nor

would he so condescend. Nor could he go from Lady Lufton to Mr Robarts, having once failed with her

ladyship. Indeed, in giving him his due, we must acknowledge that his disapprobation of Lady Lufton's

strategy arose rather from his true conviction as to its impropriety, than from any fear lest this attention paid

to Miss Crawley should tend to bring about her marriage with his son. By this time he hated the very name of

Crawley. He hated it the more because in hating it he had to put himself for the time on the same side with

Mrs Proudie. But for all that he would not condescend to any unworthy mode of fighting. He thought it

wrong that the young lady should be invited to Framley Parsonage at this moment, and he said so to the

person who had, as he thought, in truth, given the invitation; but he would not allow his own personal

motives to induce him to carry on the argument with Lady Lufton. 'The bishop is a fool,' he said, 'and the

bishop's wife is a knave. Nevertheless I would not have had the young lady over to Framley at this moment.

If, however, you think it right and Robarts thinks it right, there is an end of it.'

I am induced to think that Mr Robarts was not quite confident of the expediency of what he was doing by the

way in which he mentioned to Mr Oriel the fact of Miss Crawley's presence at the parsonage as he drove that

gentleman home in his gig. They had been talking about Mr Crawley when he suddenly turned himself round,

so that he could look at his companion, and said, 'Miss Crawley is staying with us at the parsonage at the

'What! Mr Crawley's daughter?' said Mr Oriel, showing plainly by his voice that the tidings had much

'We have known them for the last seven or eight years,' said Mark; 'and though I should be giving a false

notion if I were to say that I myself have known them intimatelyfor Crawley is a man whom it is quite

impossible to know intimatelyyet the womankind at Framley have known them. My sister stayed with

'Yes; my sister Lucy. It was just before her marriage. There was a lot of trouble, and the Crawleys were all ill,

and she went to nurse them. And then the old lady took them up, and altogether there came to be a sort of

feeling that they were to be regarded as friends. They are always in trouble, and now in this special trouble

the women between them have thought it best to have the girl over at Framley. Of course I had a kind of

feeling about this commission; but as I knew that it would make no difference with me I did not think it

necessary to put my veto upon the visit.' Mr Oriel said nothing further, but Mark Robarts was aware that Mr

That morning old Lady Lufton herself had come across to the parsonage with the express view of bidding all

the party to come across to the hall to dine. 'You can tell Mr Oriel, Fanny, with Lucy's compliments, how

delighted she will be to see him.' Old Lady Lufton always spoke of her daughterinlaw as the mistress of

the house. 'If you think he is particular, you know, we will send a note across.' Mrs Robarts said that she

supposed Mr Oriel would not be particular, but, looking at Grace, made some faint excuse. 'You must come,

my dear,' said Lady Lufton. 'Lucy wishes it particularly.' Mrs Robarts did not know how to say that she

would not come; and so the matter stoodwhen Mrs Robarts was called upon to leave the room for a

'Dear Lady Lufton,' said Grace, getting up suddenly from her chair; 'will you do me a favoura great

favour?' She spoke with an energy which quite surprised the old lady, and caused her almost to start from her

'I don't like making promises,' said Lady Lufton; 'but anything I can do with propriety, I will.'

'You can do this. Pray let me stay here today. You don't understand how I feel about going out while papa is

in this way. I know how kind and how good you all are; and when dear Mrs Robarts asked me here, and

mamma said that I had better come, I could not refuse. But indeed, indeed I had rather not go out to a

'It is not a party, my dear girl,' said Lady Lufton, with the kindest voice which she knew how to assume. 'And

you must remember that my daughterinlaw regards you as so very old a friend! You remember, of course,

'And therefore you should not regard it as going out. There will be nobody there but ourselves and the people

'But it will be going out, Lady Lufton; and I do hope you will let me stay here. You cannot think how I feel it.

Of course I cannot go without something like dressingandand. In poor papa's state I feel that I ought

not to do anything that looks like gaiety. I ought never to forget it;not for a moment.'

There was a tear in Lady Lufton's eye as she said'My dear, you shan't come. You and Fanny shall stop and

'I won't do anything of the kind,' said Lady Lufton. Then, when Mrs Robarts returned to the room, her

ladyship explained it all in two words. 'Whilst you have been away, my dear, Grace has begged off, and

'Pooh, pooh,' said Lady Lufton. 'Fanny and I have known each other quite long enough not to stand on any

complimentshaven't we, my dear? I must get home now, as all the morning has gone by. Fanny, my dear, I

want to speak to you.' Then she expressed her opinion of Grace Crawley as she walked across the parsonage

garden with Mrs Robarts. 'She is a very nice girl, and a very good girl I am sure; and she shows excellent

feeling. Whatever happens we must take care of her. And, Fanny, have you observed how handsome she is?'

'She is more than pretty when she has a little fire in her eyes. She is downright handsomeor will be when

she fills out a little. I tell you what, my dear; she'll make havoc with somebody yet; you see if she doesn't.

Byebye. Tell the two gentlemen to be up by seven punctually.' And then Lady Lufton went home.

Grace so contrived that Mr Oriel came and went without seeing her. There was a separate nursery breakfast at

the parsonage, and by special permission Grace was allowed to have her tea and breadandbutter on the

next morning with the children. 'I thought you told me Miss Crawley was here,' said Mr Oriel, as the two

clergymen stood waiting for the gig that was to take the visitor away to Barchester.

'So she is,' said Robarts; 'but she likes to hide herself, because of her father's trouble. You can't blame her.'

'Of course she is by birth, and all that,' said Mr Oriel, apologising for his inquiry.

'I don't think there is another girl in the county so well educated,' said Mr Robarts.

'And we think her a great beauty. As for manners, I never saw a girl with a prettier way of her own.'

It will have been perceived that old Lady Lufton had heard nothing of Major Grantly's offence; that she had

no knowledge that Grace had already made havoc, as she had called ithad, in truth, made very sad havoc,

at Plumstead. She did not, therefore, think much about it when her own son told her upon her return home

from the parsonage on that afternoon that Major Grantly had come over from Cosby Lodge, and that he was

going to dine and sleep at Framley Court. Some slight idea of thankfulness came across her mind that she had

not betrayed Grace Crawley into a meeting with a stranger. 'I asked him to come some day before we went to

town,' said his lordship; 'and I am glad he has come today, as two clergymen to one's self are, at any rate, one

But Mrs Robarts was in a great flurry when she was told of this by her husband on his return from the dinner.

Mrs Crawley had found an opportunity of telling the story of Major Grantly's love to Mrs Robarts before she

had sent her daughter to Framley, knowing that the families were intimate, and thinking it right that there

'I hope he will not comefor Grace's sake,' said Mrs Robarts. She hesitated whether she should tell her

husband. She always did tell him everything. But on this occasion she thought she had no right to do so, and

'You needn't be afraid. He won't come,' said the vicar. On the following morning, as soon as Mr Oriel was

gone, Mr Robarts went outabout his parish he would probably have called it; but in halfanhour he might

have been seen strolling about the Court stableyard with Lord Lufton. 'Where is Grantly?' asked the vicar. 'I

don't know where he is,' said his lordship. 'He has sloped off somewhere.' The major had sloped off to the

parsonage, well knowing in what nest his dove was lying hid; and he and the vicar had passed each other. The

major had gone out the front gate, and the vicar had gone in at the stable entrance.

The two clergymen had hardly taken their departure when Major Grantly knocked at the parsonage door. He

had come so early that Mrs Robarts had taken no precautionseven had there been any precautions which

she would have thought it right to take. Grace was in the act of coming down the stairs, not having heard the

knock at the door, and thus she found her lover in the hall. He had asked, of course, for Mrs Robarts, and thus

they two entered the drawingroom together. They had not had time to speak when the servant opened the

drawingroom door to announce the visitor. There had been no word spoken between Mrs Robarts and Grace

about Major Grantly, but the mother had told the daughter of what she had said to Mrs Robarts.

'Grace,' said the major, 'I am so glad I found you!' Then he turned to Mrs Robarts with his open hand. 'You

won't take it uncivil of me if I say that my visit is not entirely to yourself? I think I may take upon myself to

Grace could not answer a word. 'Mrs Crawley told me that you had known her at Silverbridge,' said Mrs

'I came over to Framley yesterday because I heard that she was here. Am I wrong to come up here to see her?'

'Am I wrong, Grace?' Grace thought that he was the finest gentleman and the noblest lover that had ever

shown his devotion to a woman, and was stirred by a might resolve that if it ever should be in her power to

reward him after any fashion, she would pour out the reward with a very full hand indeed. But what was she

to say on the present moment? 'Am I wrong, Grace?' he said, repeating his question with so much emphasis,

'I do not think you are wrong at all. How can I say you are wrong when you are so good? If I could be your

servant I would serve you. But I can be nothing to you, because of papa's disgrace. Dear Mrs Robarts, I

cannot stay. You must answer him for me.' And having thus made her speech she escaped from the room.

It may suffice to say further now that the major did not see Grace again during his visit to Framley.

By some of these unseen telegraphic wires which carry news about the country and make no charge for the

conveyance, Archdeacon Grantly heard that his son the major was at Framley. Now in that itself there would

have been nothing singular. There had been for years much intimacy between the Lufton family and the

Grantly familyso much that an alliance between the two houses had once been planned, the elders having

considered it expedient that the young lord should marry that Griselda who had since mounted higher in the

world even than the elders had then projected for her. There had come no such alliance; but the intimacy had

not ceased, and there was nothing in itself surprising in the fact that Major Grantly should be staying at

Framley Court. But the archdeacon, when he heard the news, bethought him at once of Grace Crawley. Could

it be possible that his old friend Lady LuftonLady Lufton whom he had known and trusted all his life,

whom he had ever regarded as a pillar of the Church in Barsetshireshould be now untrue to him in a matter

so closely affecting his interests? Men when they are worried by fears and teased by adverse circumstances

become suspicious of those on whom suspicion should never rest. It was hardly possible, the archdeacon

thought, that Lady Lufton should treat him so unworthilybut the circumstances were strong against his

friend. Lady Lufton had induced Miss Crawley to go to Framley, much against his advice, at a time when

such a visit seemed to him to be very improper; and it now appeared that his son was to be there at the same

timea fact of which Lady Lufton had made no mention to him whatever. Why had not Lady Lufton told

him that Henry Grantly was coming to Framley Court? The reader, whose interest in the matter will be less

keen than was the archdeacon's, will know very well why Lady Lufton had said nothing about the major's

visit. The reader will remember that Lady Lufton, when she saw the archdeacon, was as ignorant as to the

intended visit as was the archdeacon himself. But the archdeacon was uneasy, troubled, and suspicious;and

He spoke to his wife about it within a very few hours of the arrival of the tidings by those invisible wires. He

had already told her that Miss Crawley was to go to Framley parsonage, and that he thought that Mrs Robarts

was wrong to receive her at such a time. 'It is only intended for goodnature,' Mrs Grantly had said. 'It is

misplaced goodnature at the present moment,' the archdeacon had replied. Mrs Grantly had not thought it

worth her while to undertake at the moment any strong defence of the Framley people. She knew well how

odious was the name of Crawley in her husband's ears, and she felt that the less that was said at the present

about the Crawleys the better for the peace of the rectory at Plumstead. She had therefore allowed the

expression of his disapproval to pass unchallenged. But now he came upon her with a more bitter grievance

'He can hardly be staying there,' said Mrs Grantly, 'because I know that he is so very busy at home.' The

business at home of which the major's mother was speaking was his projected moving from Cosby Lodge, a

subject which was also very odious to the archdeacon. He did not wish his son to move from Cosby Lodge.

He could not endure the idea that his son should be known throughout the county to be giving up a residence

because he could not afford to keep it. The archdeacon could have afforded to keep up two Cosby Lodges for

his son, and would have been well pleased to do so, if only his son would not misbehave against him so

shamefully! He could not bear that his son should be punished openly, before the eyes of all Barsetshire.

Indeed he did not wish that his son should be punished at all. He simply desired that his son should recognise

his father's power to inflict punishment. It would be henbane to Archdeacon Grantly to have a poor sona

son living at Pauamong Frenchmen!because he could not afford to live in England. Why had the

archdeacon been careful of his money, adding house to house and field to field? He himself was

contentedso he told himselfto die as he had lived in a country parsonage, working with the collar round

his neck up to the day of his death, if God would allow him to do so. He was ambitious of no grandeur for

himself. So he would tell himselfbeing partly oblivious of certain episodes in his own life. All his wealth

had been got together for his children. He desired that his sons should be fitting brothers for their august

sister. And now the son who was nearest to him, whom he was bent upon making a squire in his own county,

wanted to marry the daughter of a man who had stolen twenty pounds, and when objection was made to so

discreditable a connexion, replied by packing up all his things and saying that he would go and liveat Pau!

The archdeacon therefore did not like to hear of his son being very busy at home.

'I don't know whether he is busy or not,' said the archdeacon, 'but I tell you he is staying at Framley.'

'It is not at all likely. Those people always know about such things. He heard it from the Framley people. I

'A great shame that Henry should be at Framley! He has been there two or three times every year since he has

'It is a great shame that he should be had over there just at the time when that girl is there also. It is

'But, archdeacon, you do not mean to say that you think that Lady Lufton has arranged it?'

'I don't know who arranged it. Somebody has arranged it. If it is Robarts, that is almost worse. One could

'Psha!' Mrs Grantly's temper was never bitter, but at this moment it was not sweetened by her husband's very

uncivil reference to her sex. 'The whole idea is nonsense, and you should get it out of your head.'

'Am I to get it out of my head that Henry wants to make this girl his wife, and that the two are at this moment

at Framley together?' In this the archdeacon was wrong as to his facts. Major Grantly had left Framley on the

previous day, having stayed there only one night. 'It is coming to that that one can trust no oneno

oneliterally no one.' Mrs Grantly perfectly understood that the archdeacon, in the agony of the moment,

intended to exclude even herself from his confidence by that 'no one'; but to this she was indifferent,

understanding accurately when his words should be accepted as expressing his thoughts, and when they

'The probability is that no one at Lufton knew anything about Henry's partiality for Miss Crawley,' said Mrs

'And I tell you that if they are, which I doubt, they are there simply by accident. Besides, what does it matter?

If they choose to marry each other, you and I cannot prevent them. They don't want any assistance from Lady

Lufton, or anybody else. They have simply got to make up their own minds, and then no one can hinder

'I say nothing about it, archdeacon; but I do say that we must take these things as they come. What can we

do? Henry may go and stay with Lady Lufton if he pleases. You and I cannot prevent him.'

After this the archdeacon walked away, and would not argue the matter any further with his wife at the

moment. He knew very well that he could not get the better of her, and was apt at such moments to think that

she took an unfair advantage of him by keeping her temper. But he could not get out of his head the idea that

perhaps on this very day things were being arranged between his son and Grace Crawley at Framley; and he

resolved that he himself would go over and see what might be done. He would, at any rate, tell all his trouble

to Lady Lufton, and beg his old friend to assist him. He could not think that such a one as he had always

known Lady Lufton to be would approve of a marriage between Henry Grantly and Grace Crawley. At any

rate, he would learn the truth. He had once been told that Grace Crawley had herself refused to marry his son,

feeling that she would do wrong to inflict so great an injury upon any gentleman. He had not believed in so

great a virtue. He could not believe it nownow, when he heard that Miss Crawley and his son were staying

together in the same parish. Somebody must be doing him an injury. It could hardly be chance. But his

presence at Framley might even yet have a good effect, and he would at least learn the truth. So he had

himself driven to Barchester, and from Barchester he took posthorses to Framley.

As he came near to the village, he grew to be somewhat ashamed of himself, or, at least, nervous as to the

mode in which he would proceed. The driver, turning round to him, had suggested that he supposed he was to

drive to 'My Lady's'. This injustice to Lord Lufton, to whom the house belonged, and with whom his mother

lived as a guest, was very common in the county; for old Lady Lufton had lived at Framley Court through her

son's long minority, and had kept the house there till his marriage; and even since his marriage she had been

recognised as its presiding genius. It certainly was not the fault of old Lady Lufton, as she always spoke of

everything as belonging either to her son or daughterinlaw. The archdeacon had been in doubt whether he

would go to the Court or the parsonage. Could he have done exactly as he wished, he would have left the

chaise and walked to the parsonage, so as to reach it without the noise and fuss incidental to a postillion's

arrival. But that was impossible. He could not drop into Framley as though he had come from the clouds, and,

therefore, he told the man to do as he had suggested. 'To my lady's?' said the postillion. The archdeacon

assented, and the man, with loud cracks of his whip, and with a spasmodic gallop along the short avenue,

took the archdeacon up to the door of Lord Lufton's house. He asked for Lord Lufton first, putting on his

pleasantest smile, so that the servant should not suspect the purpose, of which he was somewhat ashamed.

Was Lord Lufton at home? Lord Lufton was not at home. Lord Lufton had gone up to London that morning,

intending to return the day after tomorrow; but both my ladies were at home. So the archdeacon was shown

into the room where both my ladies were sittingand with them he found Mrs Robarts. Anyone who had

become acquainted with the habits of the Framley ladies would have known that this might very probably be

the case. The archdeacon himself was as well aware as anyone of the modes of life at Framley. The lord's

wife was the parson's sister, and the parson's wife had from her infancy been the petted friend of the old lady.

Of course they all lived very much together. Of course Mrs Robarts was as much at home in the

drawingroom of Framley Court as she was in her own drawingroom at the parsonage. Nevertheless, the

archdeacon thought himself to be hardly used when he found Mrs Robarts was at the house.

'My dear archdeacon, who ever expected to see you?' said old Lady Lufton. Then the two younger women

greeted him. And they all smiled on him pleasantly, and seemed overjoyed to see him. He was, in truth, a

great favourite at Framley, and each of the three was glad to welcome him. They believed in the archdeacon

at Framley, and felt for him that sort of love which ladies in the country do feel for their elderly male friends.

There was not one of the three who would not have taken much trouble to get anything for the archdeacon

which they had thought the archdeacon would like. Even old Lady Lufton remembered what was his

favourite soup, and always took care that he should have it when he dined at the Court. Young Lady Lufton

would bring his tea to him as he sat in his chair. He was petted in the house, was allowed to poke the fire if he

pleased, and called the servants by their names as though he were at home. He was compelled, therefore, to

smile and to seem pleased; and it was not till after he had eaten his lunch, and had declared that he must

return home to dinner, that the dowager gave him an opportunity of having the private conversation which he

'Can I have a few minutes' talk with you?' he said to her, whispering into her ear as they left the

drawingroom together. So she led the way into her own sittingroom, telling him, as she asked him to be

seated, that she supposed that something special must have brought him over to Framley. 'I should have asked

'Not in the least,' said Lady Lufton. 'I have not an idea. But I did not flatter myself that you would come so far

on a morning call to see us three ladies. I hope you did not want to see Ludovic, because he will not be back

'That is lucky, as here I am. You may be pretty sure to find me here any day in the year.'

After this there was a little pause. The archdeacon hardly knew how to begin his story. In the first place he

was in doubt whether Lady Lufton had ever heard of the preposterous match which his son had proposed to

himself to make. In his anger at Plumstead he had felt sure that she knew all about it, and that she was

assisting his son. But this belief had dwindled as his anger had dwindled; and as the chaise had entered the

parish of Framley he had told himself that it was quite impossible that she should know anything about it. Her

manner had certainly been altogether in her favour since he had been in her house. There had been nothing of

the consciousness of guilt in her demeanour. But, nevertheless, there was the coincidence! How had it come

to pass that Grace Crawley and his son should be at Framley together? It might, indeed, be just possible that

'Oh, yes; she is still there, and will remain there I should think for the next ten days.'

It seemed to Lady Lufton, who was as innocent as an unborn babe in the matter of the projected marriage,

that her old friend was in a mind to persecute the Crawleys. He had on a former occasion taken upon himself

to advise that Grace Crawley should not be entertained at Framley, and now it seemed that he had come all

the way from Plumstead to say something further in the same strain. Lady Lufton, if had anything further to

say of that kind, would listen to him as a matter of course. She would listen to him and reply to him without

temper. But she did not approve of it. She told herself silently that she did not approve of persecution or of

interference. She therefore drew herself up, and pursed her mouth, and put on something of that look of

'Yes; she is still there, and I think her visit will do her a great deal of good,' said Lady Lufton.

'When we talk of doing good to people,' said the archdeacon, 'we often make terrible mistakes. It so often

'That is true, of course, Dr Grantly, and must be so necessarily, as our wisdom here below is so very limited.

But I should think as far as I can see, that is,that the kindness which my friend Mrs Robarts is showing

to this young lady must be beneficial. You know, archdeacon, I explained to you before that I could not quite

agree with you in what you said as to leaving these people alone till after the trial. I thought that help was

The archdeacon sighed deeply. He ought to have been somewhat renovated in spirit by the tone in which

Lady Lufton spoke to him, as it conveyed to him almost an absolute conviction that his first suspicion was

incorrect. But any comfort which might have come to him from this source was marred by the feeling that he

must announce his own disgrace. At any rate, he must do so, unless he were contented to go back to

Plumstead without having learned anything by his journey. He changed the tone of his voice, however, and

asked a questionas it might be altogether on a different subject. 'I heard yesterday,' he said, 'that Henry was

'He was here yesterday. He came the evening before, and dined and slept here, and went home yesterday

'Miss Crawley? No; she would not come. She thinks it best not to go out while her father is in his present

'She is quite right in that,' said the archdeacon; and then he paused again. He thought that it would be best for

him to make a clean breast of it, and to trust Lady Lufton's sympathy. 'Did Henry go up to the parsonage?' he

But still Lady Lufton did not suspect the truth. 'I think he did,' she replied, with an air of surprise. 'I think I

'No, Lady Lufton, he did not go up there to call on Mrs Robarts. He went up there because he is making a

fool of himself about that Miss Crawley. That is the truth. Now you understand it all. I hope that Mrs Robarts

does not know it. I do hope for her own sake that Mrs Robarts does not know it.'

The archdeacon certainly had no longer any doubt as to Lady Lufton's innocence when he looked at her face

as she heard these tidings. She had predicted that Grace Crawley would 'make havoc', and could not,

therefore, be altogether surprised at the idea that some gentleman should have fallen in love with her; but she

had never suspected that the havoc might be made so early in her days, or on so great a quarry. 'You don't

'Dear, dear, dear! I'm sure, archdeacon, that you will believe me when I say that I knew nothing about it.'

'Or I certainly should not have been glad to see him here. But the house, you know, is not mine, Dr Grantly. I

could have done nothing if I had known of it. But only to think; well, to be sure. She has lost no time, at

Now this was not at all the light in which the archdeacon wished that the matter should be regarded. He had

been desirous that Lady Lufton should be horrorstricken by the tidings, but it seemed to him that she

regarded the iniquity as a good joke. What did it matter how young or how old the girl might be? She came of

poor peopleof people who had no friendsof disgraced people; and Lady Lufton ought to feel that such a

marriage would be a terrible crime. 'I need hardly tell you, Lady Lufton,' said the archdeacon, 'that I shall set

'Of course I cannot prevent it. Of course I cannot prevent it. If he will break my heart and his mother'sand

his sister'sof course I cannot prevent it. If he will ruin himself he must have his own way.'

'They will have enough to live uponsomewhere in Spain or France.' The scorn expressed in the

archdeacon's voice as he spoke of Pau as being somewhere in Spain or France' should have been heard to be

'Do you mean to say that it will make a difference as to your own property, Dr Grantly?'

'Certainly it will, Lady Lufton. I told Henry when I first heard of the thingbefore he had definitely made

any offer to the girlthat I should withdraw from him altogether the allowance that I now make him, if he

married her. And I told him also that if he persisted in his folly I should think it my duty to alter my will.'

'Sorry! And am I not sorry? Sorrow is no sufficient word. I am brokenhearted. Lady Lufton, it is killing me.

It is indeed. I love him; I love him;I love him as you have loved your son. But what is the use? What can

Lady Lufton sat for a while silent, thinking of a certain episode in her own life. There had been a time when

her son was desirous of making a marriage which she had thought would break her heart. She had for a time

moved heaven and earthas far as she knew how to move themto prevent the marriage. But at last she

had yieldednot from lack of power, for the circumstances had been such that at the moment of yielding she

had still the power in her hand of staying the marriagebut she had yielded because she had perceived that

her son was in earnest. She had yielded, and had kissed the dust; but from the moment in which her lips had

so touched the ground, they had taken great joy in the daughter in whom her son had brought into the house.

Since that she had learned to think that young people might perhaps be right, and that old people might

perhaps be wrong. This trouble of her friend the archdeacon's was very like her own trouble. 'And he is

'Yes; he'll tell me the truthas far as he knows it. I do not see that there is much anxiety to spare me in that

matter. He is desirous rather of making me understand that I have no power of saving him from his own folly.

Again the archdeacon's position was very like Lady Lufton's position, as it had existed before her son's

marriage. In that case also the young lady, who was now Lady Lufton's own daughter and dearest friend, had

refused the lover who proposed to her, although the marriage was so much to her advantageloving him too,

the while, with her whole heart, as it was natural to suppose that Grace Crawley might so love her lover. The

more she thought of the similarity of the stories, the stronger were her sympathies on the side of poor Grace.

Nevertheless, she would comfort her old friend if she knew how; and of course she could not but admit to

herself that the match was one which must be a cause of real sorrow to him. 'I don't know why her refusal

'Of course a girl refuses at firsta girl, I mean, in such circumstances as hers. She can't but feel that more is

offered to her than she ought to take, and that she is bound to go through the ceremony of declining. But my

'No; it is not with her. If she becomes his wife I trust that I may never see her.'

'I do; I do. How can it be otherwise with me? But I shall have no quarrel with her. With him I must quarrel.'

'If he took her out of the streets, then it would be the same?' said the archdeacon with bitter anger.

'No again;or in that case her want of education would probably unfit her for your society.'

'Her father's disgrace, then, should be a matter of indifference to me, Lady Lufton?'

'I did not say so. In the first place, her father is not disgracednot as yet; and we do not know whether he

may ever be disgraced. You will hardly be disposed to say that persecution from the palace disgraces a

'Wait and see, my friend, before you condemn him altogether. But, be that as it may, I acknowledge that the

'I do know; and I feel for you. But I think that your son has a right to expect that you should not show the

same repugnance to such a marriage as this as you would have had a right to show had he suggested to

himself a wife as those at which you had just now hinted. Of course you can advise him, and make him

understand your feelings; but I cannot think you will be justified in quarrelling with him, or in changing your

views towards him with regards money, seeing that Miss Crawley is an educated lady, who has done nothing

to forfeit your respect.' A heavy cloud came upon the archdeacons's brow as he heard these words, but he did

not make any immediate answer. 'Of course, my friend,' continued Lady Lufton, 'I should not have ventured

'No; you have not said too much. It is not that. You and I are such old friends that either may say almost

'Yes;just so. And therefore I have ventured to speak my mind,' said Lady Lufton.

'Of course;and I am obliged to you. But, Lady Lufton, you do not understand yet how this hits me.

Everything in life that I have done, I have done for my children. I am wealthy, but I have not used my wealth

for myself, because I have desired that they should be able to hold their heads high in the world. All my

ambition has been for them, and all the pleasure which I have anticipated for myself in my old age is that

which I have hoped to receive from their credit. As for Henry, he might have had anything he wanted from

me in the way of money. He expressed a wish, a few months since, to go into Parliament, and I promised to

help him as far as ever I could go. I have kept up the game altogether for him. He, the younger son of a

working parish parson, has had everything that could be given to the eldest son of a country

gentlemanmore than is given to the eldest son of many a peer. I have hoped that he would marry again, but

I have never cared that he should marry for money. I have been willing to do anything for him myself. But,

Lady Lufton, a father does feel that he should have some return for all this. No one can imagine that Henry

ever supposed that a bride from that wretched place at Hogglestock could be welcomed among us. He knew

that he would break our hearts, and he did not care for it. That is what I feel. Of course he has the power to do

as he likes;and of course I have the power to do as I like also with what is my own.'

Lady Lufton was a very good woman, devoted to her duties, affectionate and just to those about her, truly

religious, and charitable from her nature; but I doubt whether the thorough worldliness of the archdeacon's

appeal struck her as it will strike the reader. People are so much more worldly in practice than they are in

theory, so much keener after their own gratification in detail than they are in the abstract, that the narrative of

many an adventure would shock us, though the same adventure would not shock us in the action. One girl

tells another how she has changed her mind in love; and the friend sympathises with the friend, and perhaps

applauds. Had the story been told in print, the friend who had listened with equanimity would have read of

such vacillation with indignation. She who vacillated herself would have hated her own performance when

brought before her judgment as a matter in which she had no personal interest. Very fine things are written

every day about honesty and truth, and men read them with a sort of external conviction that a man, if he be

anything of a man at all, is of course honest and true. But when the internal convictions are brought out

between two or three who are personally interested togetherbetween two or three who feel that their little

gathering is, so to say, 'tiled'those internal convictions differ very much from the external convictions. This

man, in his confidences, asserts broadly that he does not mean to be thrown over, and that man has a project

for throwing over somebody else; and the intention of each is that scruples are not to stand in the way of his

success. The 'Ruat coelum, fiat justitia' was said, no doubt, from an outside balcony to a crowd, and the

speaker knew that he was talking buncombe. The 'Rem, si possis recte, si non quocunque modo' was

whispered into the ear in a club smokingroom, and the whisperer intended that his words should prevail.

Lady Lufton had often heard her friend the archdeacon preach, and she knew well the high tone which he

could take as the necessity of trusting our hopes for the future for all our true happiness; and yet she

sympathised with him when he told her that he was brokenhearted because his son would take a step which

might possibly interfere with his worldly prosperity. Had the archdeacon been preaching about matrimony, he

would have recommended young men, in taking wives to themselves, especially to look for young women

who feared the Lord. But in talking about his own son's wife, no word as to her eligibility or non eligibility

in this respect escaped his lips. Had he talked on the subject till nightfall no such word would have been

spoken. Had any friend of his own, man or woman, in discussing such a matter with him and asking his

advice upon it, alluded to the fear of the Lord, the allusion would have been distasteful to him and would

have smacked to his palate of hypocrisy. Lady Lufton, who understood as well as any woman what it is to be

'tiled' with a friend, took all this in good part. The archdeacon had spoken out of his heart what was in his

heart. One of his children had married a marquis. Another might probably become a bishopperhaps an

archbishop. The third might be a county squirehigh among the county squires. But he could only so

become by walking warily;and now he was bent on marrying the penniless daughter of an impoverished

halfmad country curate, who was about to be tried for stealing twenty pounds! Lady Lufton, in spite of all

'Ohnothing. I came over, as I said before, because I thought he was here. I think it right, before he has

absolutely committed himself, to take every means in my power to make him understand that I shall

'I will try. I will try my best to be firm. I will at once put everything beyond my control after my death.' The

archdeacon, as he uttered these terrible wordswords which were awful to Lady Lufton's earsresolved

that he would endeavour to nurse his own wrath; but, at the same time, almost hated himself for his own

pusillanimity, because he feared that his wrath would die away before he should have availed himself of its

'I would do nothing rash of that kind,' said Lady Lufton. 'Your object is to prevent the marriagenot to

Lady Lufton paused a couple of minutes before she replied. She had a scheme in her head, but it seemed to

her to savour of cruelty. And yet at present it was her chief duty to assist her old friend, if any assistance

could be given. There could hardly be a doubt that such a marriage as this, of which they were speaking, was

in itself an evil. In her case, the case of her son, there had been no question of a trial, of money stolen, of

aught that was in truth disgraceful. 'I think if I were you, Dr Grantly,' she said, 'that I would see the young

'See her myself?' said the archdeacon. The idea of seeing Grace Crawley himself had, up to this moment,

'I think I will,' said the archdeacon, after a pause. Then he got up from his chair. 'If I am to do it, I had better

'Be gentle with her, my friend.' The archdeacon paused again. He certainly had entertained the idea of

encountering Miss Crawley with severity rather than gentleness. Lady Lufton rose from her seat, and coming

up to him, took one of his hands between her own two. 'Be gentle to her,' she said. 'You have owned that she

has done nothing wrong.' The archdeacon bowed his head in token of assent and left the room.

The archdeacon, as he walked across from the Court to the parsonage, was very thoughtful and his steps were

very slow. The idea of seeing Miss Crawley herself had been suggested to him suddenly, and he had to

determine how he could bear himself towards her, and what he would say to her. Lady Lufton had beseeched

him to be gentle with her. Was the mission one in which gentleness would be possible? Must it not be his

object to make this young lady understand that she could not be right in desiring to come into his family and

share in all his good things when she had no good things of her ownnothing but evil things to bring with

her? And how could this be properly explained to the young lady in gentle terms? Must he not be round with

her, and give her to understand in plain wordsthe plainest which he could usethat she would not get his

good things, though she would most certainly impose the burden of all her evil things on the man whom she

was proposing to herself as a husband. He remembered very well as he went, that he had been told that Miss

Crawley had herself refused the offer, feeling herself to be unfit for the honour tendered to her; but he

suspected the sincerity of such a refusal. Calculating in his own mind the unreasonably great advantages

which would be conferred on such a young lady as Miss Crawley by a marriage with his son, he declared to

himself that any girl must be very wicked indeed who should expect, or even accept, so much more than was

her due;but nevertheless he could not bring himself to believe that any girl, when so tempted, would, in

sincerity, decline to commit this great wickedness. If he was to do any good by seeing Miss Crawley, must it

not consist in a proper explanation to her of the selfishness, abomination, and altogether damnable blackness

of such wickedness as this on the part of a young woman in her circumstances? 'Heaven and earth!' he must

say, 'here are you, without a penny in your pocket, with hardly decent raiment on your back, with a thief for

your father, and you think that you are to come and share all the wealth that the Grantlys have amassed, that

you are to have a husband with broad acres, a big house, and game preserves, and become one of a family

whose name has never been touched by a single accusationno, not a suspicion? No;injustice such as that

shall never be done betwixt you and me. You may wring my heart, and you may ruin my son; but the broad

acres and the big house, and the game preserves, and the rest of it, shall never be your reward for doing do.'

How was all that to be told effectively to a young woman in gentle words? And then how was a man in the

archdeacon's position to be desirous of gentle wordsgentle words which would not be efficientwhen he

knew well in his heart of hearts that he had nothing but threats on which to depend. He had no more power of

disinheriting his own son for such an offence as that contemplated than he had of blowing out his own brains,

and he knew that it was so. He was a man incapable of such persistency of wrath against one whom he loved.

He was neither cruel enough nor strong enough to do such a thing. He could only threaten to do it, and make

what best use he might have of threats, whilst threats might be of avail. In spite of all that he had said to his

wife, to Lady Lufton, and to himself, he knew very well that if his son did sin in this way he, the father,

In going across from the front gate of the Court to the parsonage there was a place where three roads met, and

on this spot there stood a fingerpost. Round this fingerpost there was now pasted a placard, which at once

arrested the archdeacon's eye:'Cosby LodgeSale of furnitureGrowing crops to be sold on the grounds.

Three hunters. A brown gelding warranted for saddle or harness!'The archdeacon himself had given the

brown gelding to his son, as a great treasure.'Three Alderney cows, two cowcalves, a low phaeton, a gig,

two ricks of hay.' In this fashion were proclaimed in odious details all those comfortable additions to a

gentleman's house in the country, with which the archdeacon was so well acquainted. Only last November he

had recommended his son to buy a certain clodcrusher, and the clodcrusher had of course been bought.

The bright blue paint upon it had as yet not given way to the stains of ordinary farmyard muck and

mire;and here was the clodcrusher advertised for sale! The archdeacon did not want his son to leave

Cosby Lodge. He knew well enough that his son need not leave Cosby Lodge. Why had the foolish fellow

been in such a hurry with his hideous illconditioned advertisements? Gentle! How was he in such

circumstances to be gentle? He raised his umbrella and poked angrily at the disgusting notice. The iron

ferrule caught the paper at a chink in the post, and tore it from the top to the bottom. But what was the use? A

horrid ugly bill lying torn in such a spot would attract only more attention than one fixed to a post. He could

not condescend, however, to give it further attention, but passed on to the parsonage. Gentle indeed!

Nevertheless Archdeacon Grantly was a gentleman, and never yet had dealt more harshly with any woman

than we have sometimes seen him to do with his wifewhen he would say to her an angry word or two with

a good deal of marital authority. His wife, who knew well what his angry words were worth, never even

suggested to herself that she had the cause for complaint on that head. Had she known that the archdeacon

was about to undertake such a mission as this which he had now in hand, she would not have warned him to

be gentle. She, indeed, would have strongly advised him not to undertake the mission, cautioning him that the

'Grace, my dear,' said Mrs Robarts, coming up into the nursery in which Miss Crawley was sitting with the

children, 'come out here a moment, will you?' Then Grace left the children and went out into the passage. 'My

'A gentleman, Mrs Robarts! What gentleman?' But Grace, though she asked the questions, conceived that the

gentleman must be Henry Grantly. Her mind did not suggest to her the possibility of any other gentleman

'Well, GraceI think you must. I hardly know how you can refuse. He is an intimate friend of everybody

'He has come, no doubt, to bid me having nothing to say to his son. He need not have troubled himself. But

'Stop a moment, Grace. Come into my room for an instant. The children have pulled your hair about.' But

Grace, though she followed Mrs Robarts into the bedroom, would have nothing done to her hair. She was too

proud for thatand we may say, also, too little confident in any good which such resources might effect on

her behalf. 'Never mind about that,' she said. 'What am I to say to him?' Mrs Robarts paused before she

replied, feeling that the matter was one which required some deliberation. 'Tell me what I must say to him?'

'Yes, you do. You do know. If I had all the world to give, I would give it all to Major Grantly.'

'No, I will not tell him that. Never mind about my frock, Mrs Robarts. I do not care for that. I will tell him

that I love his son and his granddaughter too well to injure them. I will tell him nothing else. I might as well

go now.' Mrs Robarts, as she looked at Grace, was astonished at the serenity of her face. And yet when her

hand was in the drawingroom door Grace hesitated, looked back, and trembled. Mrs Robarts blew a kiss to

her from the stairs; and then the door was opened, and the girl found herself in the presence of the

archdeacon. He was standing on the rug, with his back to the fire, and his heavy ecclesiastical hat was placed

on the middle of the round table. The hat caught Grace's eyes at the moment of her entrance, and she felt that

all the thunders of the Church were contained within it. And then the archdeacon himself was so big and so

clerical, and so imposing. Her father's aspect was severe, but the severity of her father's face was essentially

different from that expressed by the archdeacon. Whatever impression came from her father came from the

man himself. There was no outward adornment there; there was, so to say, no wig about Mr Crawley. Now

the archdeacon was not exactly adorned; but he was so thoroughly imbued with high clerical belongings and

sacerdotal fitnesses as to appear always as a walking, sitting, or standing impersonation of parsondom. To

poor Grace, as she entered the room, he appeared to be a personation of parsondom in its severest aspect.

'Yes, sir,' said she, curtseying ever so slightly, as she stood before him at some considerable distance.

His first idea was that his son must be indeed a fool if he was going to give up Cosby Lodge and all

Barsetshire, and retire to Pau, for so slight and unattractive a creature as he now saw before him. But this idea

stayed with him only for a moment. As he continued to gaze at her during the interview he came to perceive

that there was very much more than he had perceived at the first glance, and that his son, after all, had had

'Will you take a chair?' he said. Then Grace sat down, still at a distance from the archdeacon, and he kept his

place upon the rug. He felt that there would be a difficulty in making her feel the full force of his eloquence

all across the room; and yet he did not know how to bring himself nearer to her. She became suddenly very

important in his eyes, and he was to some extent afraid of her. She was so slight, so meek, so young; and yet

there was about her something so beautifully feminineand, withal, so like a ladythat he felt instinctively

that he could not attack her with harsh words. Had her lips been full, and her colour high, and had her eyes

rolled, had she put forth against him any of that ordinary artillery with which youthful feminine batteries are

charged, he would have been ready to rush to combat. But this girl, about whom his son had gone mad, sat

there as passively as though she were conscious of the possession of no artillery. There was not a single gun

fired from beneath her eyelids. He knew not why, but he respected his son now more than he had respected

him for the last two months;more, perhaps, than he had ever respected him before. He was an eager as ever

against the marriage;but in thinking of his son in what he said and did after these few moments of the

interview, he ceased to think of him with contempt. The creature before him was a woman who grew in his

opinion till he began to feel that she was in truth fit to be the wife of his sonif only she were not a pauper,

and the daughter of a mad curate, and alas! too probably, of a thief. Though his feeling towards the girl had

changed, his duty to himself, his family, and his son, was the same as ever, and therefore he began his task.

'Nor had I intended when I came over her to call on my old friend, Lady Lufton, to come up to this house. But

as I knew that you were here, Miss Crawley, I thought that upon the whole it would be better that I should see

you.' Then he paused as though he expected that Grace would say something; but Grace had nothing to say.

'Of course you must understand, Miss Crawley, that I should not venture to speak to you on this subject

unless I myself were very closely interested in it.' He had not yet said what was the subject, and it was not

probable that Grace should give him any assistance by affecting to understand this without direct explanation

from him. She sat quite motionless, and did not even aid him by showing by her altered colour that she

understood his purpose. 'My son has told me,' said he, 'that he has professed an attachment for you, Miss

Then there was another pause, and Grace felt that she was compelled to say something. 'Major Grantly has

been very good to me,' she said, and then she hated herself for having uttered words which were so tame and

unwomanly in their spirit. Of course her lover's father would despise her for having so spoken. After all it did

not much signify. If he would only despise her and go away, it would perhaps be for the best.

'I do not know about being good,' said the archdeacon. 'I think he is good. I think he means to be good.'

'Of course his first duty is to her. Is it not? and he owes much to his family. Do you not feel that?'

'Of course I feel it, sir.' The poor girl had always heard Dr Grantly spoken of as the archdeacon, but she did

'Now, Miss Crawley, pray listen to me; I will speak to you very openly. I must speak to you openly, because

it is my duty on my son's behalfbut I will endeavour to speak to you kindly also. Of yourself I have heard

nothing but what is favourable, and there is no reason as yet why I should not respect and esteem you.' Grace

told herself that she would do nothing which ought to forfeit his respect and esteem, but that she did not care

two straws whether his respect and esteem were bestowed on her or not. She was striving after something

very different from that. 'If my son were to marry you, he would greatly injure himself, and would very

greatly injure his child.' Again he paused. He had told her to listen, and she was resolved that she would

listenunless he would say something which might make a word from her necessary at the moment. 'I do

'I am glad of thatvery glad of it. I do not know whether you are aware that my son is dependent upon me

for the greater part of his income. It is so, and as I am so circumstanced with my son, of course, I feel the

closest possible concern in his future prospects.' The archdeacon did not know how to explain clearly why the

fact of his making his son an annual allowance should give him a warmer interest in his son's affairs than he

might have had had the major been altogether independent of him; but he trusted that Grace would

understand this by her own natural lights. 'Now, Miss Crawley, of course I cannot wish to say a word that

'I know,' said she, interrupting him. 'Papa is accused of stealing money. He did not steal it, but people think

'I don't think our being poor ought to signify a bit,' said Grace. 'Papa is a gentleman, and a clergyman, and

'I know I ought not to be your son's wife as long as people think that papa stole the money. If he had stolen it,

I ought never to be Major Grantly's wifeor anybody else's. I know that very well. And as for EdithI

The archdeacon had now left the rug, and advanced till he was almost close to the chair on which Grace was

sitting. 'My dear,' he said,' what you say does you very much honourvery much honour indeed.' Now that

he was close to her, he could look into her eyes, and he could see the exact form of her features, and could

understandcould not help understandingthe character of her countenance. It was a noble face, having in

it nothing that was poor, nothing that was mean, nothing that was shapeless. It was a face that promised

infinite beauty, with a promise that was on the very verge of fulfilment. There was a play about her mouth as

she spoke and a curl in her nostrils as the eager words came from her, which almost made the selfish father

give way. Why had they not told him that she was such a one as this? Why had not Henry himself spoken of

the speciality of her beauty? No man in England knew better than the archdeacon the difference between

beauty of one kind and beauty of another kind in a woman's facethe one beauty, which comes from health

and youth and animal spirits, and which belongs to the miller's daughter, and the other beauty, which shows

itself in fine lines and a noble spiritthe beauty which comes from breeding. 'What you say does you very

'Poor as we areand no clergyman, I think, was ever so poorI should have done as your son asked me at

'I will not injure him. Sir, there is my promise.' And now as she spoke she rose from her chair, and standing

close to the archdeacon, laid her hand very lightly on the sleeve of his coat. 'There is my promise. As long as

The archdeacon was still looking down at her, and feeling the slight touch of her fingers, raised his arm a

little as though to welcome the pressure. He looked into her eyes, which were turned eagerly towards his, and

when doing so was quite sure that the promise would be kept. It would have been a sacrilegehe felt that it

would have been a sacrilegeto doubt such a promise. He almost relented. His soft heart, which was never

very well under his own control, gave way so far that he was nearly moved to tell her that, on his son's behalf,

he acquitted her of the promise. What could any man's son do better than have such a woman for his wife? It

would have been of no avail had he made her such offer. The pledge she had given had not been wrung from

her by his influence, nor could his influence have availed aught with her towards the alteration of her

purpose. It was not the archdeacon who had taught her that it would not be her duty to take disgrace into the

house of the man she loved. As he looked down upon her face two tears formed themselves in his eyes, and

gradually trickled down his old nose. 'My dear,' he said, 'if this cloud passes away from you, you shall come

to us and be our daughter.' And thus he also pledged himself. There was a dash of generosity about the man,

in spite of his selfishness, which always made him desirous of giving largely to those who gave largely to

him. He would fain that his gifts should be bigger, if it were possible. He longed at this moment to tell her

that the dirty cheque should go for nothing. He would have done it, I think, but that it was impossible for him

He had contrived that her hand should fall from his arm into his grasp, and now for a moment he held it. 'You

are a good girl,' he said'a dear, dear, good girl. When this cloud has passed away, you shall come to us and

'Let us hope that it may. Let us hope that it may.' Then he stooped over and kissed her, and leaving the room,

got out into the hall and thence into the garden, and so away, without saying a word of adieu to Mrs Robarts.

As he walked across to the Court, whither he was obliged to go, because of his chaise, he was lost in surprise

at what had occurred. He had gone to the parsonage hating the girl, and despising his son. Now, as he

retraced his steps, his feelings were altogether changed. He admired the girland as for his son, even his

anger was for the moment altogether gone. He would write to his son at once and implore him to stop the

sale. He would tell his son all that had occurred, or rather would make Mrs Grantly do so. In respect to his

son he was quite safe. He thought at that moment that he was safe. There would be no use in hurling further

threats at him. If Crawley was found guilty of stealing the money, there was the girl's promise. If he were

acquitted there was his own pledge. He remembered perfectly well that the girl had said more than thisthat

she had not confined her assurance to the verdict of the jury, that she had protested that she would not accept

Major Grantly's hand as long as people thought that her father had stolen the cheque; but the archdeacon felt

that it would be ignoble to hold her closely to her words. The event, according to his ideas of the compact,

was to depend on the verdict of the jury. If the jury should find Mr Crawley not guilty, all objection on his

part to the marriage was to be withdrawn. And he would keep his word! In such case it should be withdrawn.

When he came to the rags of the auctioneer's bill, which he had before torn down with his umbrella, he

stopped a moment to consider he would act at once. In the first place he would tell his son that his threats

were withdrawn, and would ask him to remain at Cosby Lodge. He would write the letter as he passed

through Barchester, on his way home, so that his son might receive it on the following morning; and he

would refer the major to his mother for a full explanation of the circumstances. Those odious bills must be

removed from every barndoor and wall in the county. At the present moment his anger against his son was

chiefly directed against his illjudged haste in having put up those illomened bills. Then he paused to

consider what must be his wish as to the verdict of the jury. He had pledged himself to abide by the verdict,

and he could not but have a wish on the subject. Could he desire in his heart that Mr Crawley should be found

guilty? He stood still for a moment thinking of this, and then he walked on, shaking his head. If it might be

'She is a good girla very good girl. I am in a great hurry, and hardly know how to tell you more now.'

'I say that she is a very good girl. An angel could not have behaved better. I will tell you some day, Lady

When the archdeacon was gone old Lady Lufton confided to young Lady Lufton her very strong opinion that

many months would not be gone before Grace Crawley would be the mistress of Cosby Lodge. 'It will be a

great promotion,' said the old lady, with a little toss of her head. When Grace was interrogated afterwards by

Mrs Robarts as to what had passed between her and the archdeacon she had very little to say as to the

interview. 'No he did not scold me,' she replied to an inquiry from her friend. 'There is no engagement,' said

Grace. 'But I suppose you acknowledged, my dear, that a future engagement is quite possible?' 'I told him,

Mrs Robarts,' Grace answered, after hesitating for a moment, 'that I would never marry his son as long as

papa was suspected by any one in the world of being a thief. And I will keep my word.' but she said nothing

By the time that the archdeacon reached Plumstead his enthusiasm in favour of Grace Crawley had somewhat

cooled itself; and the language which from time to time he prepared for conveying his impressions to his

wife, became less fervid as he approached his home. There was his pledge, and by that he would abide;and

so much he would make both his wife and son understand. But any idea which he might have entertained for

a moment of extending the promise he had given and relaxing that given to him was gone before he saw his

own chimneys. Indeed, I fear he had by that time begun to feel that the only salvation now open to him must

come from the jury's verdict. If the jury should declare Mr Crawley to be guilty, then; he would not say

even to himself that in such case all would be right, but he did feel that much as he might regret the fate of the

poor Crawleys, and of the girl whom in his warmth he had declared to be almost an angel, nevertheless to

'I have seen Miss Crawley,' he said to his wife, as soon as he had closed the door of his study, before he had

been two minutes out of the chaise. He had determined that he would dash at the subject at once, and he thus

'Yes; I went up to the parsonage and called upon her. Lady Lufton advised me to do so.'

'Oh, Henry has gone. He was only there one night. I suppose he saw her, but I am not sure.'

'I forgot to ask her.' Mrs Grantly, at hearing this, expressed her surprise by opening wide her eyes. He had

gone all the way over to Framley on purpose to look after his son, and learn what were his doings, and when

there he had forgotten to ask the person who could have given him better information than anyone else! 'But

it does not signify,' continued the archdeacon; 'she said enough to me to make that of no importance.'

'She said that she would never consent to marry Henry as long as there was any suspicion abroad as to her

'Certainly I do; I do not doubt that in the least. I put implicit confidence in her. And I have promised her that

'You could not have helped yourself. You would have felt yourself obliged to be equally generous with her.

She came up to me and she put her hand upon me' 'Psha!' said Mrs Grantly. 'But she did, my dear, and then

she said, "I promise you that I will not become your son's wife while people think papa stole this money."

'Admirably,' said the archdeacon, who was in measure compelled to justify the generosity into which he had

'I don't know what you may call a paragon, my dear. I say that she is a lady, and that she is extremely

goodlooking, and that she behaved very well. I cannot say less in her favour. I am sure you would not say

'She must be wonderful when she has succeeded both with the son and with the father.'

'I wish you had been there instead of me,' said the archdeacon angrily. Mrs Grantly very probably wished so

also, feeling that in that case a more serene mode of business would have been adopted. How keenly

susceptible the archdeacon still was to the influences of feminine charms, no one knew better than Mrs

Grantly, and whenever she became aware that he had been in this way seduced from the wisdom of his cooler

judgment she always felt something akin to indignation against the seducer. As for her husband, she probably

told herself at such moments that he was an old goose. 'If you had been there, and Henry with you, you would

'I don't say you have made a bad job of it, my dear,' said Mrs Grantly. 'But it's past eight, and you must be

In the evening the plan of future campaign was arranged between them. The archdeacon would not write to

his son at all. In passing through Barchester he had abandoned his idea of despatching a note from the hotel,

feeling that such a note as would be required was not easily written in a hurry. Mrs Grantly would now write

to her son, telling him that circumstances had changed, that it would be altogether unnecessary for him to sell

his furniture, and begging him to come over and see his father without a day's delay. She wrote her letter that

night, and read to the archdeacon all that she had writtenwith the exception of the postscript:'You may

be quite sure that there will be no unpleasantness with your father.' That was the postscript which was not

On the third day after that Henry Grantly did come over to Plumstead. His mother in her letter to him had not

explained how it had come to pass that the sale of the furniture would be unnecessary. His father had given

him to understand distinctly that his income would be withdrawn from him unless he would express his

intention of giving up Miss Crawley; and it had been admitted among them all that Cosby Lodge must be

abandoned if this were done. He certainly would not give up Grace Crawley. Sooner than that, he would give

up every stick in his possession, and go an live in New Zealand if it were necessary. Not only had Grace's

conduct to him made him thus firm, but the natural bent of his own disposition had tended that way also. His

father had attempted to dictate to him, and sooner than submit to that he would sell the coat off his back. Had

his father confined his opposition to advice, and had Miss Crawley been less firm in her view of her duty, the

major might have been less firm also. But things had so gone that he was determined to be fixed as granite. If

others would not be moved from their resolves, neither would he. Such being the state of his mind, he could

not understand why he was thus summoned to Plumstead. He had already written over to Pau about his

house, and it was well that he should, at any rate, see his mother before he started. He was willing, therefore,

to go to Plumstead, but he took no steps as to the withdrawal of those auctioneer's bills to which the

archdeacon so strongly objected. When he drove into the rectory yard, his father was standing there before

him. 'Henry,' he said, 'I am very glad to see you. I am very much obliged to you for coming.' Then Henry got

out of his cart and shook hands with his father, and the archdeacon began to talk about the weather. 'Your

mother has gone into Barchester to see your grandfather,' said the archdeacon. 'If you are not tired, we might

as well take a walk. I want to go up as far as Flurry's cottage.' The major of course declared that he was not at

all tired, and that he should be delighted of all things to go up and see old Flurry, and thus they started.

Young Grantly had not even been into the house before he left the yard with his father. Of course, he was

thinking of the coming sale at Cosby Lodge, and of his future life at Pau, and of his injured position in the

world. There would be no longer any occasion for him to be solicitous as to the Plumstead foxes. Of course

these things were in his mind; but he could not begin to speak of them till his father did so. 'I'm afraid your

grandfather is not very strong,' said the archdeacon, shaking his head. 'I fear he won't be with us very long.'

'Well, you know, he is an old man, Henry; and he was always somewhat old for his age. He will be eighty, if

he lives two years longer, I think. But he'll never reach eighty;never. You must go and see him before you

go back home; you must indeed.' The major, of course, promised that he would see his grandfather, and the

archdeacon told his son how nearly the old man had fallen in the passage between the cathedral and the

deanery. In this way they had nearly made their way up to the gamekeeper's cottage without a word of

reference to any subject that touched upon the matter of which each of them was of course thinking. Whether

the major intended to remain at home or to live at Pau, the subject of Mr Harding's health was a natural topic

for conversation between him and his father; but when his father stopped suddenly, and began to tell him how

a fox had been trapped on Darvell's farm'and of course it was a Plumstead fox there can be no doubt

that Flurry is right about that';when the archdeacon spoke of this iniquity with much warmth, and told his

son how he had at once written off to Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, and how Mr Thorne had declared that he

didn't believe a word of it, and how Flurry had produced the pad of the fox, with the marks of the trap on the

skinthen the son began to feel that the ground was becoming very warm, and that he could not go on much

longer without rushing into details about Grace Crawley. 'I've no more doubt that it was one of our foxes than

'It doesn't matter where the fox was bred. It shouldn't have been trapped,' said the major.

'Of course not,' said the archdeacon, indignantly. I wonder whether he would have been so keen had a

Romanist priest come into his parish and turned one of his Protestants into a Papist?

Then Flurry came up, and produced the identical pad out of his pocket. 'I don't suppose it was intended,' said

the major, looking at the interesting relic with scrutinising eyes. 'I suppose it was caught in a rabbittrap, eh,

'I don't see what right a man has with traps at all, when gentlemen is particular about their foxes,' said Flurry.

'Nor I either,' said Flurry. 'No farmer ought to be on that land who don't have a horse of his own. And if I war

Squire Thorne, I wouldn't have no farmer there who didn't keep no horse. When a farmer has a horse of his

own, and follies the hounds, there ain't no rabbittraps;never. How does that come about, Mr Henry?

Mr Henry shook his head, and turned away, and the archdeacon followed him. There was an hypocrisy about

this pretended care for the foxes which displeased the major. He could not, of course, tell his father that the

foxes were no longer anything to him; but yet he must make it understood that such was his conviction. His

mother had written to him, saying that the sale of the furniture need not take place. It might be all very well

for his mother to say that, or for his father; but after what had taken place, he could consent to remain in

England on no other understanding than that his income should be made permanent to him. Such permanence

must not be any longer dependent on his father's caprice. In these days he had come to be somewhat in love

with poverty and Pau, and had been feeding on the luxury of his grievance. There, perhaps, nothing so

pleasant as the preparation for selfsacrifice. To give up Cosby Lodge and the foxes, to marry a penniless

wife, and to go and live at Pau on six or seven hundred a year, seemed just now to Major Grantly to be a fine

thing, and he did not intend to abandon this fine thing without receiving a very clear reason for doing so. 'I

can't quite understand Thorne,' said the archdeacon. 'He used to be so particular about these foxes, and I don't

suppose that a country gentleman will change his ideas because he has given up hunting himself.'

'Mr Thorne never thought very much of Flurry,' said Henry Grantly, with his mind intent upon Pau and his

It was a known fact that the archdeacon's solicitude about the Plumstead covers was wholly on behalf of his

son the major. The major himself knew this thoroughly, and felt that his father's present special anxiety was

intended as a corroboration of the tidings conveyed in his mother's letter. Every word so uttered was meant to

have reference to his son's future residence in the country. 'Father,' he said, turning round shortly, and

standing before the archdeacon in the pathway, 'I think you are quite right about the covers. I feel sure that

every gentleman who preserves a fox does good to the country. I am sorry that I shall not have a closer

'Yes, she said so. But, to tell you the truth, sir, I do not like the risk of living beyond my assured income.'

'I do not wish to complain, sir, but you have made me understand that you can, and that in certain

circumstances, you will, at a moment, withdraw what you give me. Since this was said to me, I have felt

The archdeacon did not know how to explain. He had intended that the real explanation should be given by

Mrs Grantly, and had been anxious to return to his old relations with his son without any exact terms on his

own part. But his son was, as he thought, awkward, and would drive him to some speech that was

'Your income is not in any danger. But you had better speak to your mother about it. For myself, I think I

may say that I have never yet behaved to any of you with any harshness. A son should, at any rate, not be

offended because a father thinks that he is entitled to some consideration for what he does.'

'You had better speak to your mother, Henry. She will explain to you what has taken place. Look at that

plantation. You don't remember it, but every tree there was planted since you were born. I bought that farm

from old Mr Thorne, when he was purchasing St Ewold's Downs, and it was the first bit of land I ever had of

'No: this is Plumstead, where we stand, but that's in Eiderdown. The parishes run in and out here. I never

'Yes, I fancy he did. It gave him the whole of the parish, which was a great thing. It is astonishing how land

has risen in value since that, and yet rents are not so very much higher. They who buy land now can't have

'It is a comfortable feeling to know that you stand on your own ground. Land is about the only thing that can't

fly away. And then, you see, land gives so much more than the rent. It gives position and influence and

political power, to say nothing about the game. We'll go back now. I daresay your mother will be at home by

The archdeacon was striving to teach a great lesson to his son when he thus spoke of the pleasure which a

man feels when he stands upon his own ground. He was bidding his son to understand how great was the

position of an heir to a landed property, and how small the position of a man depending on what Dr Grantly

himself would have called a scratch incomean income made up of a few odds and ends, a share or two in

this company and a share or two in that, a slight venture in foreign stocks, a small mortgage and suchlike

convenient but uninfluential driblets. A man, no doubt, may live at Pau and enjoy life after a fashion while

reading Galignani and looking at the mountains. Butas it seemed to the archdeaconwhen there was a

choice between this kind of thing, and foxcovers at Plumstead, and a seat among the magistrates of

Barsetshire, and an establishment full of horses, beeves, swine, carriages, and hayricks, a man brought up as

his son had been brought up ought not to be very long in choosing. It never entered into the archdeacon's

mind that he was tempting his son; but Henry Grantly felt that he was having the good things of the world

shown to him, and that he was being told that they should be hisfor a consideration.

The major, in his present mood, looked at the matter from his own point of view, and determined that the

consideration was too high. He was pledged not to give up Grace Crawley, and he would not yield on that

point, though he might be tempted by all the foxcovers in Barsetshire. At this moment he did not know how

far his father was prepared to yield, or how far it was expected that he should yield himself. He was told that

he had to speak to his mother. He would speak to his mother, but, in the meantime, he could not bring himself

to make a comfortable answer to his father's eloquent praise of landed property. He could not allow himself

to be enthusiastic on the matter till he knew what was expected of him if he chose to submit to be made a

British squire. At present Galignani and the mountains had their charms for him. There was, therefore, but

little conversation between the father and the son as the walked back to the rectory.

Late that night the major heard the whole story from his mother. Gradually, and as though unintentionally,

Mrs Grantly told him all she knew of the archdeacon's visit to Framley. Mrs Grantly was quite as anxious as

was her husband to keep her son at home, and therefore she omitted in her story those little sneers against

Grace which she herself had been tempted to make by the archdeacon's fervour in the girl's favour. The major

said as little as was possible while he was being told of his father's adventure, and expressed neither anger nor

satisfaction till he had been made thoroughly to understand that Grace had pledged herself not to marry him

'Your father is quite satisfied with her,' said Mrs Grantly. 'He thinks that she is behaving very well.'

'But she made it of her own accord. She was the first to speak about Mr Crawley's supposed guilt. Your father

'He must have led to it; and I think that he had no right to do so. He had no right to go to her at all.'

'Yes, you are. A man is foolish if he won't take what he wants without asking exactly how he is to come by it.

That your father should be anxious is the most natural thing in the world. You know how high he has always

held his own head, and how much he thinks about the characters and the position of clergymen. It is not

'That's all very well for you to say, and I'll take your word that it is so;that is as far as the young lady goes

herself. And there's your father almost as much in love with her as you are. I don't know what you would

'But what harm has been done you? From what you yourself have told me, I know that Miss Crawley has said

the same thing to you that she has said to your father. You can't but admire her for the feeling.'

'Very well again. Let us hope that Mr Crawley will be acquitted, and then all will be right. Your father never

goes back on his promise. He is always better than his word. You'll find that if Mr Crawley is acquitted, or if

he escapes in any way, your father will only be happy for an excuse to make much of the young lady. You

should not be hard on him, Henry. Don't you see that it is his one great desire to keep you near him. The sight

'Yes, you are. You remember nothing, and you forget nothing. You expect everything to be made smooth for

you, and will do nothing towards making things smooth for anybody else. You ought to promise to give up

the sale. If the worst came to the worst, your father would not let you suffer in pocket for yielding to him so

The son paused a moment before he answered his mother, thinking over all the circumstances of his position.

'I cannot do so as long as I am subject to my father's threat,' he said at last. 'What took place between my

father and Miss Crawley can go for nothing with me. He has told me that his allowance to me is to be

'But he has not withdrawn it. The last quarter was paid to your account only the other day. He does not mean

'Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living at Cosby Lodge does not depend on my

marriagethat my income will be continued to me whether I marry or no, and I'll arrange matters with the

'It is you who are to blame now. I tell you plainly that that is my opinion. If evil comes of it, it will be your

'A son ought to give up something to his father;especially to a father as indulgent as yours.'

But it was of no use. And Mrs Grantly when she went to bed could only lament in her own mind over what,

in discussing the matter afterwards with her sister, she called the crossgrainedness of men. 'They are as alike

each other as two peas,' she said, 'and though each of them wished to be generous, neither of them would

condescend to be just.' Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much said on the subject between

the archdeacon and his wife before they met their son at breakfast; but neither at breakfast nor afterwards was

there a word said between the father and the son that had the slightest reference to the subject in dispute

between them. The archdeacon made no more speeches in favour of land, nor did he revert to the foxes. He

was very civil to his son;too civil by half, as Mrs Grantly continued to say to herself. And then the major

drove himself away in his cart, going through Barchester, so that he might see his grandfather. When he

wished his father goodbye, the archdeacon shook hands with him, and said something about the chance of

rain. Had he not better take the big umbrella? The major thanked him courteously, and said that he did not

think it would rain. Then he was gone. 'Upon his own head be it,' said the archdeacon when his son's step was

heard in the passage to the backyard. Then Mrs Grantly got up quietly and followed her son. She found him

settling himself in his dogcart, while the servant who was to accompany him was still at the horse's head.

She went up close to him, and, standing by the wheel of the gig, whispered a word or two into his ear. 'If you

love me, Henry, you will postpone the sale. Do it for my sake.' There came across his face a look of great

The archdeacon was walking about the room striking one hand open with the other closed, clearly in a tumult

of anger, when his wife returned to him. 'I have done all that I can,' he said'all that I can; more, indeed,

'I fear nothing. But if he chooses to sell his things at Cosby Lodge he must abide the consequences. They

'Matter! Do you think there is a single person in the county who will not know that his doing is a sign that he

'I can tell you, then, that in that case, I shall have quarrelled with him! I have not been a hard father, but there

'Peace!yes; peace indeed. I am to yield in everything. I am to be nobody. Look here;as sure as ever an

auctioneer's hammer is raised at Cosby Lodge, I will alter the settlement of the property. Every acre shall go

to Charles. There is my word for it.' The poor woman had nothing more to say at that moment. She thought

that at the present conjuncture her husband was less in the wrong than her son, but she could not tell him so

Henry Grantly found his grandfather in bed, with Posy seated on the bed beside him. 'My father told me that

'Thank you, my dear;it is very good of you. There is not much the matter with me, but I am not quite so

'Grandpa doesn't go to the cathedral now,' said Posy; 'so I come in to talk to him. Don't I, grandpa?'

'And to play cat'scradle;only we have not had any cat'scradle this morning, because it is cold for

When the major had been there about twenty minutes he was preparing to take his leavebut Mr Harding,

bidding Posy go out of the room, told his grandson that he had a word to say to him. 'I don't like to interfere,

'God forbid that there should be; but, my dear boy, don't let there be anything wrong between you and your

father. He is a good man, and the time will come when you will be proud of his memory.'

'Then be gentle with himand submit yourself. I am an old man nowvery fast going away from all those I

love here. But I am happy in leaving my children because they have ever been gentle with me and kind. If I

am permitted to remember them whither I am going, my thoughts of them all will be pleasant. Should it not

The major could not but tell himself that Mr Harding had been a man easy to please, easy to satisfy, and, in

that respect, very different from his father. But of course he said nothing of this. 'I will do my best,' he

It seemed to the major as he drove away from Barchester that everybody was against him; and yet he was

sure that he himself was right. He could not give up Grace Crawley; and unless he were to do so he could not

One morning while Lily Dale was staying with Mrs Thorne in London, there was brought up to her room, as

she was dressing for dinner, a letter which the postman had just left for her. The address was written in a

feminine hand, and Lily was at once aware that she did not know the writing. The angles were very acute, and

the lines were very straight, and the vowels looked to be cruel and false, with their sharp points and their

open eyes. Lily at once knew that it was the performance of a woman who had been taught to write at school,

and not at home, and she became prejudiced against the writer before she opened the letter. When she had

opened the letter and read it, her feelings towards the writer were not of a kindly nature. It was as follows:

'A lady presents her compliments to Miss L D and earnestly implores Miss L D to give her answer to the

following question: Is Miss L D engaged to marry Mr J E? The lady in question pledges herself not to

interfere with Miss L D in any way, should the answer be in the affirmative. The lady earnestly requests that

a reply to this question may be sent to M D Postoffice 455 Edgware Road. In order that L D may not doubt

that M D had an interest in J E, M D encloses the last note she received from him before he started for the

Continent.' Then there was a scrap, which Lily well knew to be in the handwriting of John Eames, and the

scrap was as follows:'Dearest Mpunctually at 8.30. Ever and always your unalterable J E. Lily, as she

read this, did not comprehend that John's note to M D had been in itself a joke.

Lily Dale had heard of anonymous letters before, but had never received one, or even received one. Now that

she had one in her hand, it seemed to her that there could be nothing more abominable than the writing of

such a letter. She let it drop from her as though the receiving, and opening, and reading it had been a stain to

her. As it lay on the ground at her feet, she trod upon it. Of what sort could a woman be who wrote such a

letter as that? Answer it! Of course she would not answer it. It never occurred to her for a moment that it

could become her to answer it. Had she been at home with her mother, she would have called her mother to

her, and Mrs Dale would have taken it from the ground, and have read it, and then destroyed it. As it was, she

must pick it up herself. She did so, and declared to herself that there should be an end to it. It might be right

that somebody should see it, and therefore she would show it to Emily Dunstable; after that it should be

Of course the letter could have no effect upon her. So she told herself. But it did have a very strong effect,

and probably the exact effect which the writer had intended that it should have. J E was, of course, John

Eames. There was no doubt about that. What a fool the writer must have been to talk of L D in the letter,

when the outside cover was plainly addressed to Lily Dale! But there are some people for whom the

pretended mystery of initial letters has a charm, and who love the darkness of anonymous letters. As Lily

thought of this, she stamped on the letter again. Who was the M D to whom she was required to send an

answerwith whom John Eames corresponded in the most affectionate terms? She had resolved not even to

ask a question about M D, and yet she could not divert her mind from the inquiry. It was, at any rate, a fact

that there must be some woman designated by the letterssome woman who had, at any rate, chosen to call

herself M D. and John Eames had called her M. There must, at any rate, be such a woman. This female, be

she who she might, had thought it worth her while to make this inquiry about John Eames, and had

manifestly learned something of Lily's own history. And the woman had pledged herself not to interfere with

John Eames, if L D would only condescend to say that she was engaged to him! As Lily thought of the

proposition, she trod upon the letter for the third time. Then she picked it up, and having no place of custody

At night, before she went to bed, she showed the letter to Emily Dunstable. 'Is it not surprising that any

But Miss Dunstable hardly saw it in the same light. 'If anybody were to write me such a letter about Bernard,'

'That would be very different. You and Bernard, of course, understand each other.'

'Never more than we do now, dear. The thing that annoys me is that such a woman as that should have even

'As long as people have got ears and tongues, people will hear other people's names.'

Lily paused a moment, and then spoke again, asking another question. 'I suppose this woman does know him?

'She knows something about him, no doubt, and has some reasons for wishing that you will quarrel with him.

If I were you, I should take care not to gratify her. As for Mr Eames's note, it is a joke.'

'I suppose,' continued Emily, 'that most gentlemen become acquainted with some people that they would not

wish all their friends to know that they knew. They go about so much more than we do, and meet people of

'No gentleman should become intimately acquainted with a woman who could write such a letter as that,' said

Lily. And as she spoke she remembered a certain episode in John Eames's early life, which had reached her

from a source which she had not doubted, and which had given her pain and offended her. She had believed

that John Eames had in that case behaved very cruelly to a young woman, and had thought that her offence

had come simply from that feeling. 'But of course it is nothing to me,' she said. 'Mr Eames can choose his

'Perhaps not. As I said before, of course, it does not signify; only there is something very disagreeable about

the whole thing. The idea is so hateful! Of course this woman means me to understand that she considers

'I will stand in nobody's way. Mr Eames has a right to give his hand to anyone that he pleases. I, at any rate,

can have no cause of offence against him. The only thing is that I do wish that my name could be left alone.'

Lily, when she was in her own room again, did destroy the letter; but before she did so she read it again, and

it became so indelibly impressed on her memory that she could not forget even the words of it. The lady who

wrote had pledged herself, under certain conditions, 'not to interfere with Miss L D.' 'Interfere with me!' Lily

said to herself; 'nobody has power to do so.' As she turned it over in her mind, her heart became hard against

John Eames. No woman would have troubled herself to write such a letter without some cause for the writing.

That the writer was vulgar, false, unfeminine, Lily thought that she could perceive from the letter itself; but

no doubt the woman knew John Eames had some interest in the question of his marriage, and was entitled to

For some weeks past now, up to the hour at which the anonymous letter had reached her hands, Lily's heart

had been growing soft and still softer towards John Eames; and now again it had become hardened. I think

that the appearance of Adolphus Crosbie in the Park, that momentary vision of the real man by which the

divinity of the imaginary Apollo had been dashed to the ground, had done a service to the cause of her other

lover; of the lover who had never been a god, but who of late years had at any rate grown into the full

dimension of a man. Unfortunately for the latter, he had commenced his lovemaking when he was but little

more than a boy. Lily, as she had thought of the two together, in the days of her solitude, after she had been

deserted by Crosbie, had ever pictured to herself the lover whom she had preferred as having something

godlike in his favour, as being far the superior in wit, in manner, in acquirement, and in personal advantage.

There had been goodnature and true hearty love on the side of the other man; but circumstances had seemed

to show that his goodnature was equal to all, and that he was able to share even his hearty love among two

or three. A man of such a character, known by a girl from his boyhood as John Eames had been known by

Lily Dale, was likely to find more favour as a friend than as a lover. So it had been between John Eames and

Lily. While the untrue memory of what Crosbie was, or ever had been, was present to her, she could hardly

bring herself to accept in her mind the idea of a lover who was less noble in his manhood than the false

picture which that untrue memory was ever painting for her. Then had come before her eyes the actual man;

and though he had been seen but for a moment, the false image had been broken into shivers. Lily had

discovered that she had been deceived, and that her forgiveness had been asked, not by a god, but by an

ordinary human being. As regarded the ungodlike man himself, this could make no difference. Having

thought upon the matter deeply, she had resolved that she would not marry Mr Crosbie, and had pledged

herself to that effect to friends who never could have brought themselves to feel affection for him, even had

she married him. But the shattering of the false image might have done John Eames a good turn. Lily knew

that she had at any rate full permission from all her friends to throw in her lot with hisif she could persuade

herself to do so. Mother, uncle, sister, brotherinlaw, cousinand now this new cousin's bride that was to

betogether with Lady Julia and a whole crowd of Allington and Guestwick friends, were in favour of such

a marriage. There had been nothing against it but the fact that the other man had been dearer to her; and that

other fact that poor Johnny lacked somethingsomething of earnestness, something of manliness, something

of that Phoebus divinity with which Crosbie had contrived to invest his own image. But, as I have said above,

John had gradually grown, if not into divinity, at least into manliness; and the shattering of the false image

had done him yeoman's service. Now had come this accursed letter, and Lily, despite herself, despite her

better judgment, could not sweep it away from her mind and make the letter as nothing to her. M D had

promised not to interfere with her! There was no room for such interference, no possibility that such

interference should take place. She hoped earnestlyso she told herselfthat her old friend John Eames

might have nothing to do with a woman so impudent and vulgar as must be this M D; but except as regarded

old friendship, M D and John Eames, apart or together, could be as nothing to her. Therefore, I say that the

All London was new to Lily Dale, and Mrs Thorne was very anxious to show her everything that could be

seen. She was to return to Allington before the flowers of May would have come, and the crowd and the glare

and the fashion and the art of the Academy's great exhibition must therefore remain unknown to her; but she

was taken to see many pictures, and among others she was taken to see the pictures belonging to a certain

nobleman who, with that munificence which is so amply enjoyed and so little recognised in England, keeps

open house for the world to see the treasures which the wealth of his family had collected. The necessary

order was procured, and on a certain brilliant April afternoon, Mrs Thorne and her party found themselves in

this nobleman's drawingroom. Lily was with her, of course, and Emily Dunstable was there, and Bernard

Dale, and Mrs Thorne's dear friend Mrs Harold Smith, and Mrs Thorne's constant and useful attendant, Siph

Dunn. They had nearly completed their delightful but wearying task of gazing at pictures, and Mrs Harold

Smith had declared that she would not look at another painting till the exhibition was open; three of the ladies

were seated in the drawingroom, and Siph Dunn was standing before them, lecturing about art as though he

had been brought up on the ancient masters; Emily and Bernard were lingering behind, and the others were

simply delaying their departure till the truant lovers should have caught them. At this moment two gentlemen

entered the room from the gallery, and the two gentlemen were Fowler Pratt and Adolphus Crosbie.

All the party except Mrs Thorne knew Crosbie personally, and all of them except Mrs Harold Smith knew

something of the story of what had occurred between Crosbie and Lily. Siph Dunn had learned it all since the

meeting in the park, having nearly learned it all from what he had seen with there with his eyes. But Mrs

Thorne, who knew Lily's story, did not know Crosbie's appearance. But there was his friend Fowler Pratt,

who, as will be remembered, had dined with her but the other day; and she, with that outspoken and

somewhat loud impulse which was natural to her, addressed him at once across the room, calling him by

name. Had she not done so, the two men might probably have escaped through the room, in which case they

would have met Bernard Dale and Emily Dunstable in the doorway. Fowler Pratt would have endeavoured so

to escape, and to carry Crosbie with him, as he was quite alive to the experience of saving Lily from such a

'There's Fowler Pratt,' she had said when they first entered, quite loud enough for Fowler Pratt to hear her.

'Mr Pratt, come here. How d'ye do? You dined with me last Tuesday, and you've never been to call.'

'I never recognise that obligation till after the middle of May,' said Mr Pratt, shaking hands with Mrs Thorne

'I don't see the justice of that at all,' said Mrs Thorne. 'It seems to me that a good dinner is much entitled to a

morsel of pasteboard in April as at any other time. You won't have another till you have calledunless

Crosbie would have gone on, but that in his attempt to do so he passed close by the chair on which Mrs

Harold Smith was sitting, and that he was accosted by her. 'Mr Crosbie,' she said, 'I haven't seen you for an

age. Has it come to pass that you have buried yourself entirely?' He did not know how to extricate himself so

as to move on at once. He paused, and hesitated, and then stopped, and made an attempt to talk to Mrs Smith

as though he were at his ease. The attempt was anything but successful; but having once stopped, he did not

know how to put himself in motion again, so that he might escape. At this moment Bernard Dale and Emily

Dunstable came up and joined the group; but neither of them had discovered who Crosbie was till they were

Lily was seated between Mrs Thorne and Mrs Smith, and Siph Dunn had been standing immediately opposite

to them. Fowler Pratt, who had been drawn into the circle against his will, was now standing close to Dunn,

almost between him and Lilyand Crosbie was standing within two yards of Lily, on the other side of Dunn.

Emily and Bernard had gone behind Pratt and Crosbie to Mrs Thorne's side before they had recognised the

two men;and in this way Lily was completely surrounded. Mrs Thorne, who in spite of her eager,

impetuous ways, was as thoughtful of others as any woman could be, as soon as she heard Crosbie's name

understood it all, and knew that it would be well that she should withdraw Lily from her plight. Crosbie, in

his attempt to talk to Mrs Smith, had smiled and simpered, and had then felt that to smile and simper before

Lily Dale, with a pretended indifference to her presence, was false on his part, and would seem to be mean.

He would have avoided Lily for both their sakes, had it been possible; but it was no longer possible, and he

could not keep his eyes from her face. Hardly knowing what he did, he bowed to her, lifted his hat, and

Lily, from the moment that she had perceived his presence, had looked straight before her, with something of

fierceness in her eyes. Both Pratt and Siph Dunn had observed her narrowly. It had seemed as though Crosbie

had been altogether outside the ken of her eyes, or the notice of her ears, and yet she had seen every motion

of his body, and had heard every word which had fallen from his lips. Now, when he saluted her, she turned

her face full upon him, and bowed to him. Then she rose from her seat, and made her way, between Siph

Dunn and Pratt, out of the circle. The blood had mounted to her face and suffused it all, and her whole

manner was such that it could escape the observation of none who stood there. Even Mrs Harold Smith had

seen it, and had read the story. As soon as she was on her feet, Bernard had dropped Emily's hand, and

offered his arm to his cousin. 'Lily,' he had said out loud, 'you had better let me take you away. It is a

misfortune that you have been subjected to the insult of such a greeting.' Bernard and Crosbie had been early

friends, and Bernard had been the unfortunate means of bringing Crosbie and Lily together. Up to this day,

Bernard had never had his revenge for the illtreatment which his cousin had received. Some morsel of that

revenge came to him now. Lily almost hated her cousin for what he said; but she took his arm, and walked

with him from the room. It must be acknowledged in excuse for Bernard Dale, and as an apology for the

apparent indiscretion of his words, that all the circumstances of the meeting had become apparent to everyone

there. The misfortune of the encounter had become too plain to admit of its being hidden under any of the

ordinary veils of society. Crosbie's salutation had been made before the eyes of them all, and in the midst of

absolute silence, and Lily had risen with so queenlike a demeanour, and had moved with so stately a step,

that it was impossible that anyone concerned should pretend to ignore the facts of the scene that had occurred.

Crosbie was still standing close to Mrs Harold Smith, Mrs Thorne had risen from her seat, and the words

which Bernard Dale had uttered were still sounding in the ears of them all. 'Shall I see after the carriage?' said

Siph Dunn. 'Do,' said Mrs Thorne; 'or, stay a moment; the carriage will of course be there, and we will go

together. Goodmorning, Mr Pratt. I expect that, at any rate, you will send me your card by post.' Then they

'I think you will agree with me now that you had better give her up,' said Fowler Pratt.

'I will never give her up,' said Crosbie, 'till I hear that she has married someone else.'

'You may take my word for it, that she will never marry you after what has just occurred.'

'Very likely not; but still the attempt, even the idea of the attempt will be a comfort to me. I shall be

Crosbie stood for a while silent, looking at a portrait which was hung just within the doorway of a smaller

room into which they had passed, as though his attention were entirely rivetted by the picture. But he was

thinking of the picture not at all, and did not even know what kind of painting was on the canvas before him.

'You do not quite understand me. You do not know how thoroughly I have repented of the evil that I have

Fowler Pratt having been told to hold his tongue as regarded that subject, made no reply to this, and began to

Lily, leaning on her cousin's arm, was out in the courtyard in front of the house before Mrs Thorne and Siph

Dunn. It was but for a minute, but still there was a minute in which Bernard felt that he ought to say a word to

'I wish, of course, that you had not spoken; but I am not angry. I have no right to be angry. I made the

misfortune for myself. Do not say anything more about it, dear Bernard;that is all.'

They had walked to the picturegallery; but, by agreement, two carriages had come to take them awayMrs

Thorne's and Mrs Harold Smith's. Mrs Thorne easily managed to send Emily Dunstable and Bernard away

with her friend, and to tell Siph Dunn that he must manage for himself. In this way it was contrived that no

'My dear,' said Mrs Thorne, 'it seemed to me that you were a little put out, and so I thought it best to send

'He ought to have passed on and not to have stood an instant when he saw you,' said Mrs Thorne, with

indignation. 'There are moments when it is a man's duty simply to vanish, to melt into the air, or to sink into

the groundin which he is bound to overcome the difficulties of such sudden selfremoval, or must ever

'He should have vanished. A man is sometimes bound in honour to do so, even when he himself has done

nothing wrong;when the sin has been all with the woman. Her femininity has still a right to expect that so

much shall be done in its behalf. But when the sin has been all his own, as it was in this caseand such

'He ought to go out and hang himself simply for having allowed himself to be seen. I thought Bernard

'I won't trouble you with it, my dear; I will promise you that. But, Lily, I can hardly understand you. This

'After this I will not; but you must let me have my way now for one moment. I have so often longed to speak

to you, but have not done so from fear of offending you. Now the matter has come up by chance, and it was

impossible that what has occurred should pass by without a word. I cannot conceive why the memory of that

'My life is not destroyed. My life is anything but destroyed. It is a very happy life.'

'But, my dear, if all that I hear is true, there is a most estimable young man whom everybody likes, and

particularly all your own family, and whom you like very much yourself; and you will have nothing to say to

him, though his constancy is like the constancy of an old Paladinand all because of this wretch who just

'I do not want you to explain it all. Of course I would not ask any young woman to marry any man whom she

did not love. Such marriages are abominable to me. But I think that a young woman ought to get married if

the thing fairly comes in her way, and if her friends approve, and if she is fond of the man who is fond of her.

It may be that some memory of what has gone before is allowed to stand in your way, and that it should not

be so allowed. It sometimes happens that a horrid morbid sentiment will destroy a life. Excuse me, then, Lily,

if I say too much to you in my hope that you may not suffer after this fashion.'

'Here we are at home, and perhaps you would like to go in. I have some calls which I must make.' Then the

As if she had not thought of it all before! As if here was anything new in this counsel which Mrs Thorne had

given her! She had received the same advice from her mother, from her sister, from her uncle, and from Lady

Julia, till she was sick of it. How had it come to pass that matters which with others are so private, should

with her have become the public property of so large a circle? Any other girl would receive advice on such a

subject from her mother alone, and there the secret would rest. But her secret had been published, as it were,

by the towncrier in the High Street! Everybody knew that she had been jilted by Adolphus Crosbie, and that

it was intended that she should be consoled by John Eames. And people seemed to think that they had a right

to rebuke her if she expressed an unwillingness to carry out this intention which the public had so kindly

Morbid sentiment! Why should she be accused of morbid sentiment because she was unable to transfer her

affections to a man who had been fixed on as her future husband by the large circle of acquaintances who had

interested themselves in her affairs? There was nothing morbid in either her desires or her regrets. So she

assured herself, with something very like anger at the accusation made against her. She had been contented,

and was contented, to live at home as her mother had lived, asking for no excitement beyond that given by

the daily routine of her duties. There could be nothing morbid in that. She would go back to Allington as soon

as might be, and have done with this London life, which only made her wretched. This seeing of Crosbie had

been terrible to her. She did not tell herself that his image had been shattered. Her idea was that all her misery

had come from the untowardness of the meeting. But there was the fact that she had seen the man and heard

his voice, and that the seeing him and hearing him had made her miserable. She certainly desired that it might

And as for John Eamesin those bitter moments of her reflection she almost wished the same in regard to

him. If he would only cease to be her lover, he might be very well; but he was not very well to her as long as

his pretensions were dinned into her ear by everybody who knew her. And then she told herself that John

would have a better chance if he had been content to plead for himself. In this, I think, she was hard upon her

lover. He had pleaded for himself as well as he knew how, and as often as the occasion had been given to

him. It had hardly been his fault that his case had been taken in hand by other advocates. He had given no

Poor Johnny. He had stood in much better favour before that lady had presented her compliments to Miss L

D. It was that odious letter, and the thoughts which it had forced upon Lily's mind, which were now most

inimical to his interests. Whether Lily loved him or not, she did not love him well enough to be jealous of

him. Had nay such letter reached her respecting Crosbie in the happy days of her young love, she would have

simply have laughed at it. It would have been nothing to her. But now she was sore and unhappy, and any

trifle was powerful enough to irritate her. 'Is Miss L D engaged to marry Mr J E?' 'No,' said Lily, out loud.

'Lily Dale is not engaged to marry John Eames, and never will be so engaged.' She was almost tempted to sit

down and write the required answer to Miss M D. Though the letter had been destroyed, she well

That evening she told Emily Dunstable that she thought she would like to return to Allington before the day

that had been appointed for her. 'But why,' said Emily, 'should you be worse than your word?'

'I daresay it will seem silly, but the fact is I am homesick. I'm not accustomed to be away from mama for so

'I don't call the affair in the park anything. Anybody may see anybody else in the Park, of course. He was not

brought near you that he could annoy you there. You ought certainly to wait till Mr Eames has come back

Then Lily decided that she must and would go back to Allington on the next Monday, and she actually did

write a letter to her mother that night to say that such was her intention. But on the morrow her heart was less

There was to be one more sitting for the picture, as the reader will remember, and the day for that sitting had

arrived. Conway Dalrymple had in the meantime called at Mrs Van Siever's house, hoping that he might be

able to see Clara, and make his offer there. But he had failed in his attempt to reach her. He had found it

impossible to say all that he had to say in the paintingroom during the very short intervals which Mrs

Broughton left to him. A man should be allowed to be alone more than fifteen minutes with a young lady on

the occasion in which he offers her his hand and his heart; but hitherto he had never had more than fifteen

minutes at his command; and then there had been the turban! He had also in the meantime called in Mrs

Broughton with the intention of explaining to her that if she really intended to favour his views in respect to

Miss Van Siever, she ought to give him a little more liberty for expressing himself. Mrs Broughton found it

necessary during this meeting to talk almost exclusively about herself and her own affairs. 'Conway,' she had

said, directly she saw him, 'I am so glad you have come. I think I should have gone mad if I had not seen

someone who cares for me.' This was early in the morning, not much after eleven, and Mrs Broughton,

hearing first his knock at the door, and then his voice, had met him in the hall and taken him into the

'Simply what I say. But you must not speak a word of it. I do not know it from himself.'

'Wait a moment. Sit down there, will you?and I will sit by you. No, Conway; do not take my hand. It is not

right. There;so. Yesterday Mrs Van Siever was here. I need not tell you all that she said to me, even if I

could. She was very harsh and cruel, saying all manner of things about Dobbs. How can I help it, if he

drinks? I have not encouraged him. And as for expensive living, I have been as ignorant as a child. I have

never asked for anything. When we were married somebody told me how much we should have to spend. It

was either two thousand, or three thousand, or four thousand, or something like that. You know, Conway,

how ignorant I am about money;that I am like a child. Is it not true?' She waited for an answer and

Dalrymple was obliged to acknowledge that it was true. And yet he had known the times in which his dear

friend had been very sharp in her memory with reference to a few pounds. 'And now she says that Dobbs

owes her money which he cannot pay her, and that everything must be sold. She says that Musselboro must

'Do you believe that she has the power to decide that things shall go this way or thatas she pleases?'

'How am I to know? She says so, and she says it is because he drinks. He does drink. That at least is true; but

how can I help it? Oh, Conway, what am I to do? Dobbs did not come home at all last night, but sent for his

thingssaying that he must stay in the City. What am I to do if they come and take the house, and sell the

furniture, and turn me out into the street?' Then the poor creature began to cry in earnest, and Dalrymple had

to console her as best he might. 'How I wish I had known you first,' she said. To this Dalrymple was able to

make no direct answer. He was wise enough to know that a direct answer might possible lead him into

terrible trouble. He was by no means anxious to find himself 'protecting' Mrs Dobbs Broughton from the ruin

Before he left her she had told him a long story, partly of matters of which he had known something before,

and partly made up of that which she had heard from the old woman. It was settled, Mrs Broughton said, that

Mr Musselboro was to marry Clara Van Siever. But it appeared, as far as Dalrymple could learn, that this was

a settlement made simply between Mrs Van Siever and Musselboro. Clara, as he thought, was not a girl likely

to fall into such a settlement without having an opinion of her own. Musselboro was to have the business, and

Dobbs Broughton was to be 'sold up' and then look for employment in the City. From her husband the wife

had not heard a word on the matter, and the above story was simply what had been told to Mrs Broughton by

Mrs Van Siever. 'For myself it seems that there can be but one fate,' said Mrs Broughton. Dalrymple, in his

tenderest voice, asked what that one fate must be. 'Never mind,' said Mrs Broughton. 'There are some things

which one cannot tell even to such a friend as you.' He was sitting near her and had all but got his arm behind

her waist. He was, however, able to be prudent. 'Maria,' he said, getting up on his feet, 'if it should really

come about that you should want anything, you will send to me. You will promise me that, at any rate?' She

rubbed a tear from her eye and said that she did not know. 'There are moments in which a man must speak

plainly,' said Conway Dalrymple;'in which it would be unmanly not to do so, however prosaic it may

seem. I need hardly tell you that my purse shall be yours if you want it.' But just at that moment she did not

want his purse, nor must it be supposed that she wanted to run away with him and to leave her husband to

fight the battle with Mrs Van Siever. The truth was that she did not know what she wanted, over and beyond

an assurance from Conway Dalrymple that she was the most illused, the most interesting, and the most

beautiful woman ever heard of, either in history or romance. Had he proposed to her to pack up a bundle and

go off with him in a cab to the London Chatham, and Dover railway station, I do not for a moment think that

she would have packed up her bundle. She would have received intense gratification from the offerso

much so that she would have been almost consoled for her husband's ruin; but she would have scolded her

lover, and would have explained to him the great iniquity of which he was guilty. It was clear to him that at

this present time he could not make any special terms with her as to Clara Van Siever. At such a moment as

this he could hardly ask her to keep out of the way, in order that he might have his opportunity. But when he

suggested that probably it might be better, in the present emergency, to give up the idea of any further sitting

in her room, and proposed to send for his canvas, colourbox, and easel, she told him that, as far as she was

concerned, he was welcome to have that one other sitting for which they had all bargained. 'You had better

come tomorrow, as we had agreed,' she said; 'and unless I shall have been turned out into the street by the

creditors, you may have the room as you did before. And you must remember, Conway, that though Mrs Van

Siever says that Musselboro is to have Clara, it doesn't follow that Clara should give way.' When we consider

everything, we must acknowledge that this was, at any rate, goodnatured. Then there was a tender parting,

He did not for a moment doubt the truth of the story which Mrs Broughton had told, as far, at least, as it

referred to the ruin of Dobbs Broughton. He had heard something of this before, and for some weeks had

expected that a crash was coming. Broughton's rise had been very sudden, and Dalrymple had never regarded

his friend as firmly placed in the commercial world. Dobbs was one of those men who seem born to surprise

the world by a spurt of prosperity, and might, perhaps, have a second spurt, or even a third, could he have

kept himself from drinking in the morning. But Dalrymple, though he was hardly astonished by the story, as

it regarded Broughton, was put out by that part of it which had reference to Musselboro. He had known that

Musselboro had been introduced to Broughton by Mrs Van Siever, but, nevertheless, he had regarded the man

as being nor more than Broughton's clerk. And now he was told that Musselboro was to marry Clara Van

Siever, and have all Mrs Van Siever's money. He resolved, at last, that he would run his risk about the

money, and take Clara either with or without it, if she would have him. And as for that difficulty in asking

her, if Mrs Broughton would give him no opportunity of putting the question behind her back, he would put it

before her face. He had not much leisure for consideration on these points, as the next day was the day for the

On the following morning he found Miss Van Siever already seated in Mrs Broughton's room when he

reached it. And at the moment Mrs Broughton was not there. As he took Clara's hand he could not prevent

himself from asking her whether she had heard anything? 'Heard what?' asked Clara. 'Then you have not,'

said he. 'Never mind now, as Mrs Broughton is here.' Then Mrs Broughton had entered the room. She seemed

to be quite cheerful, but Dalrymple perfectly understood, from a special glance which she gave to him, that he

was to perceive that her cheerfulness was assumed for Clara's benefit. Mrs Broughton was showing how great

a heroine she could be on behalf of her friends. 'Now, my dear,' she said, 'do remember that this is the last

day. It may be very well, Conway, and, of course, you know best; but as far as I can see, you have not made

half as much progress as you ought to have done.' 'We shall do excellently well,' said Dalrymple. 'So much

the better,' said Mrs Broughton; 'and now, Clara, I'll place you.' And so Clara was placed on her knees, with

Dalrymple began his work assiduously, knowing that Mrs Broughton would not leave the room for some

minutes. It was certain that she would remain for a quarter of an hour, and it might be as well that he should

really use that time on the picture. The peculiar position in which he was placed probably made his word

difficult to him. There was something perplexing in the necessity which bound him to look upon the young

lady before him both as Jael and as the future Mrs Conway Dalrymple, knowing as he did that she was at

present simply Clara Van Siever. A double personification was not difficult to him. He had encountered it

with every model that had sat to him, and with every young lady he had attempted to winif he had ever

made such an attempt with one before. But the triple character joined to the necessity of the double work, was

distressing to him. 'The hand a little further back, if you don't mind,' he said, 'and the wrist more turned

towards me. That is just it. Lean a little more over him. Therethat will do exactly.' If Mrs Broughton did

not go very quickly, he must begin to address his model on a totally different subject, even while she was in

'Not in the least,' said Clara, speaking without moving her face almost without moving her lips.

'That will be excellent,' said Mrs Broughton. She was still quite cheerful, and really laughed as she spoke.

'Oh, yes; as well as his head's as another's. I shall seem to be having my revenge for all the trouble he has

There was a slight pause, and then Dalrymple spoke. 'You have had that already, in striking me right through

'What a very pretty speech! Was it not, my dear?' said Mrs Broughton. And then Mrs Broughton laughed.

There was something slightly hysterical in her laugh which grated on Dalrymple's ears something which

seemed to tell him that at the present moment his dear friend was not going to assist him honestly in his

'Only that I should put him out, I would get up and make a curtsey,' said Clara. No young lady could ever talk

of making a curtsey for such a speech if she supposed it to have been made in earnestness. And Clara, no

doubt, understood that a man might make a hundred such speeches in the presence of a third person without

any danger that they would be taken as meaning anything. All this Dalrymple knew, and began to think that

he had better put down his palette and brush, and do the work which he had before him in the most prosaic

language that he could use. He could, at any rate, succeed in making Clara acknowledge his intention in this

way. He waited still for a minute or two, and it seemed to him that Mrs Broughton had no intention of piling

her fagots on the present occasion. It might be that the remembrance of her husband's ruin prevented her from

'I am not very good at pretty speeches, but I am good at telling the truth,' said Dalrymple.

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mrs Broughton, still with a touch of hysterical action in her throat. 'Upon my word,

'He dispraises himself most unnecessarily in denying the prettiness of his language,' said Clara. As she spoke

she hardly moved her lips, and Dalrymple went on painting from the model. It was clear that Miss Van Siever

understood that the painting, and not the pretty speeches, was the important business on hand.

Mrs Broughton had now tucked her feet up on the sofa, and was gazing at the artist as he stood at his work.

Dalrymple, remembering how he had offered her his pursean offer which, in the existing crisis of her

affairs, might mean a great dealfelt that she was illnatured. Had she intended to do him a good turn, she

would have gone now; but there she lay, with her feet tucked up, clearly proposing to be present through the

whole of the morning's sitting. His anger against her added something to his spirit, and made him determine

that he would carry out his purpose. Suddenly, therefore, he prepared himself for action.

He was in the habit of working with a Turkish cap on his head, and with a short apron tied round him. There

was something picturesque about the cap, which might not have been incongruous with lovemaking. It is

easy to suppose that Juan wore a Turkish cap when he sat with Haidee in Lambro's island. But we may be

quite sure that he did not wear an apron. Now Dalrymple had thought of all this, and had made up his mind to

work today without his apron; but when arranging his easel and his brushes, he had put it on from the force of

habit, and was now disgusted with himself as he remembered it. He put down his brush, divested his thumb

'I am going to ask Clara Van Siever to be my wife,' said Dalrymple. At that moment the door was opened,

Clara had not risen from her kneeling posture when Dalrymple began to put off his trappings. She had not

seen what he was doing as plainly as Mrs Broughton had done, having her attention naturally drawn towards

he Sisera; and, besides this, she understood that she was to remain as she was placed till orders to move were

given to her. Dalrymple would occasionally step aside from his easel to look at her in some altered light, and

such occasions she would simply hold her hammer somewhat more tightly than before. When, therefore, Mrs

Van Siever entered the room Clara was still slaying Sisera, in spite of the artist's speech. the speech, indeed,

and her mother both seemed to come to her at the same time. The old woman stood for a moment holding the

open door in her hand. 'You fool!' she said, 'what are you doing there, dressed up in that way like a guy?'

Then Clara got up from her feet and stood before her mother in Jael's dress and Jael's turban. Dalrymple

thought that the dress and turban did not become her badly. Mrs Van Siever apparently thought otherwise.

'Will you have the goodness to tell me, miss, why you are dressed up after that Mad Bess of Bedlam fashion?'

The reader will no doubt bear in mind that Clara had other words of which to think besides those which were

addressed to her by her mother. Dalrymple had asked her to be his wife in the plainest language, and she

thought that the very plainness of the language became him well. The very taking off of his apron, almost as

he said the words, though to himself the action had been so distressing as almost to overcome his purpose,

had in it something to her of direct simple determination which pleased her. When he had spoken of having a

nail driven by her right through his heart, she had not been in the least gratified; by the taking off of the

apron, and the putting down of the palette, and the downright way in which he had called her Clara Van

Siever attempting to be neither sentimental with Clara, nor polite with Miss Van Sieverdid please her.

She had often said to herself that she would never give a plain answer to a man who did not ask her a plain

question;to a man who, in asking this question, did not say plainly to her, 'Clara Van Siever, will you

become Mrs Jones?'or Mrs Smith, or Mrs Tomkins, as the case might be. Now Conway Dalrymple had

asked her to become Mrs Dalrymple very much after this fashion. In spite of the apparition of her mother, all

this had passed through her mind. Not the less, however, was she obliged to answer her mother, before she

could give any reply to the other questioner. In the meantime Mrs Dobbs Broughton had untucked her feet.

'Madam,' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton, 'you might at any rate have gone through the ceremony of having

'Madam,' said the old woman attempting to mimic the tone of the other, 'I thought that on such a very

particular occasion as this I might be allowed to announce myself. You tomfool, you why don't you take that

turban off?' Then Clara, with slow and graceful motion, unwound the turban. If Dalrymple really meant what

he had said and would stick to it, she need not mind being called a tomfool by her mother.

'Conway, I am afraid that our last sitting is disturbed,' said Mrs Broughton, with her little laugh.

'Conway's last sitting is certainly disturbed,' said Mrs Van Siever, and then she mimicked the laugh. 'And

you'll all be disturbedI can tell you that. What an ass you must be to go on with this kind of thing, after

what I said to you yesterday! Do you know that he got beastly drunk in the City last night, and that he is

drunk now, while you are going on with your tomfooleries?' Upon hearing this Mrs Dobbs Broughton fainted

Hitherto the artist had not said a word, and had hardly known what part in it would best become him to play.

If he intended to marry Claraand he certainly did intend to marry her if she would have himit might be

as well not to quarrel with Mrs Van Siever. At any rate there was nothing in Mrs Van Siever's intrusion,

disagreeable that it was, which need make him take up his sword to do battle with her. But now, as he held

Mrs Broughton in his arms, and as the horrid words which the old woman had spoken rung in his ears, he

could not refrain himself form uttering reproach. 'You ought not to have told her in this way, before other

'Leave me to be my own judge of what I ought to do, if you please, sir. If she had any feeling at all, what I

told her yesterday would have kept her from all this. But some people have no feeling, and will go on being

tomfools though the house is on fire.' As these words were spoken, Mrs Broughton fainted more persistently

than everso that Dalrymple was convinced that whether she felt or not, at any rate she heard. He had now

dragged her across the room, and laid her upon the sofa, and Clara had come to her assistance. 'I daresay you

think me very hard because I speak plainly, but there are things much harder than plain speaking. How much

'Then, sir, it mustn't belong to you any longer. It won't do for you to have a picture of my girl to hang up in

your paintingroom for all your friends to come and make their jokes about, nor yet to make a show of it in

any of your exhibitions. My daughter has been a fool, and I can't help it. If you'll tell me what's the cost, I'll

Dalrymple thought for a moment about his picture and about Mrs Van Siever. What had he better do? He

wanted to behave well, and he felt that the old woman had something of justice on her side. 'Madam,' he said,

'I certainly do wish it, but I won't trust you. If it's not sent to my house at once you'll hear from me through

Then Dalrymple deliberately opened his penknife and slit the canvas across, through the middle of the picture

each way. Clara, as she saw him do it, felt that in truth that she loved him. 'There, Mrs Van Siever,' he said;

'now you can take the bits home with you in your basket if you wish it.' At this moment, as the rent canvas

fell and fluttered upon the stretcher, there came a loud voice of lamentation from the sofa, a groan of despair

and a shriek of wrath. 'Very fine indeed,' said Mrs Van Siever. 'When ladies faint they always ought to have

'I shall take myself away very shortly,' said Mrs Van Siever, 'so you needn't trouble Mr Conway about that.

'Wait a moment, madam. As you've chopped up your handiwork there, Mr Conway Dalrymple, and as I

'That's my affair and not yours,' said Mrs Van Siever, very sharply. 'But as you've been at all this trouble, and

have now chopped it up, I don't mind paying you for your time and paints; only I shall be glad to know how

'If you choose to buy the picture, the price will be seven hundred and fifty,' said Dalrymple with a smile,

'Seven hundred and fifty pounds! I certainly shall not give you seven hundred and fifty pounds.'

'I certainly think you could invest your money better, Mrs Van Siever. But if the thing is to be sold at all, that

is my price. I've thought that there was some justice in your demand that it should be destroyedand

Mrs Van Siever had been standing on the same spot ever since she had entered the room, and now she turned

'If you have any demand to make, I beg that you will send it in your account for work done to Mr

Musselboro. He is my man of business. Clara, are you ready to come home? The cab is waiting at the

'Mrs Broughton,' said Clara, thoughtful of her raiment, and remembering that it might not be well that she

should return home, even in a cab, dressed as Jael, 'if you will allow me, I will go into your room for a minute

'But before you go, Mrs Broughton,' said Mrs Van Siever, 'it may be as well that I should tell you that my

daughter is going to become the wife of Mr Musselboro. It may simplify matters that you should know this.'

'My dear,' said Mrs Van Siever, 'you had better change your dress and come away with me.'

'Mrs Broughton,' said Clara, 'I must beg you to understand that mamma has not the slightest right in the world

to tell you what she just now said about me. Nothing on earth would induce me to become the wife of Mr

There was something which made Clara unwilling even to name the man whom her mother had publicly

'He isn't Mr Broughton's partner,' said Mrs Van Siever. 'Mr Broughton has not got a partner. Mr Musselboro

is the head of the firm. And as to your marrying him, of course, I can't make you.'

'Mrs Broughton understands that, no doubt;and so, probably, does Mr Dalrymple. I can only tell them what

are my ideas. If you choose to marry the sweep at the crossing, I can't help it. Only I don't see what good you

would do the sweep, when he would have to sweep for himself and you too. At any rate, I suppose you mean

to go home with me now?' Then Mrs Broughton and Clara left the room, and Mrs Van Siever was left with

Conway Dalrymple. 'Mr Dalrymple,' said Mrs Van Siever, 'do not deceive yourself. What I told you just now

'I'll tell you what certainly will not depend on the young lady,' said Mrs Van Siever, 'and that is whether the

man who marries her will have more with her than the clothes she stands up in. You will understand that

'Then you'd better try to understand it. Goodmorning, sir. I'm sorry you've had to slit your picture.' Then she

curtseyed low, and walked out on to the landingplace. 'Clara,' she cried, 'I'm waiting for yousixpence a

quarter of an hourremember that.' In a minute or two Clara came out to her, and then Mrs Van Siever and

'Oh, Conway, what am I to do? What am I to do?' said Mrs Dobbs Broughton. Dalrymple stood perplexed for

a few minutes, and could not tell her what she was to do. She was in such a position that it was very hard to

tell her what she was to do. 'Do you believe, Conway, that he is really ruined?'

'I cannot but believe that there is something of truth in what this woman says. Why else should she come here

with such a story?' Then there was a pause, during which Mrs Broughton was burying her face on the arm of

the sofa. 'I'll tell you what I'll do,' continued he. 'I'll go into the City and make inquiry. It can hardly be but

Then there was another pause, at the end of which Mrs Broughton got up from the sofa.

'Shall I go into the City as I proposed?' said Dalrymple, who felt that he might at any rate improve the

'Yes;yes; go into the City! Go anywhere. Go. But stay! Oh, Conway!' There was a sudden change in her

voice as she spoke. 'Harkthere he is, as sure as life.' Then Conway listened, and heard a footstep on the

stairs, as to which he had then but little doubt that it was the footstep of Dobbs Broughton. 'O heavens! He is

tipsy!' exclaimed Mrs Broughton; 'and what shall we do?' Then Dalrymple took her hand and pressed it; and

left the room, so that he might meet the husband on the stairs. In the one moment that he had for reflection he

In accordance with the resolution to which the clerical commission had come on the first day of their sitting,

'I have been given to understand that you have been informed that the Bishop of Barchester has appointed a

commission of clergymen of the diocese to make inquiry respecting certain accusations which, to the great

regret of us all, have been made against you, in respect of a cheque for twenty pounds which was passed by

you to a tradesman of the town. The clergymen appointed to form this commission are Mr Oriel, the rector of

Greshamsbury, Mr Robarts, the vicar of Framley, Mr Quiverful, the warden of Hiram's Hospital at

Barchester, and Mr Thumble, a clergyman established in that city, and myself. We held our first meeting on

last Monday, and I now write to you in compliance with a resolution to which we came. Before taking any

other steps we thought it best to ask you to attend us here on next Monday, at two o'clock, and I beg that you

'We are, of course, aware that you are about to stand your trial at the next assizes for the offence in question. I

beg you to understand that I do not express any opinion as to your guilt. But I think it right to point out to you

that in the event of a jury finding an adverse verdict, the bishop will be placed in great difficulty unless he

were fortified with the opinion of a commission formed from your fellow clerical labourers in the diocese.

Should such adverse verdict unfortunately be given, the bishop would hardly be justified in allowing a

clergyman placed as you then would be placed, to return to his cure after the expiration of such punishment

as the judge might award, without a further decision from an ecclesiastical court. This decision he could only

obtain by proceeding against you under the Act in reference to clerical offences, which empowers him as

bishop of the diocese to bring you before the Court of Archesunless you would think well to submit

yourself entirely to his judgment. You will, I think, understand what I mean. The judge at assizes might find

it his duty to imprison a clergyman for a monthregarding tat clergyman simply as he would regard any

other person found guilty by a jury and thus made subject to his judgmentand might do this for an offence

which the ecclesiastical judge would find himself obliged to visit with the severer sentence of prolonged

'We are, however, clearly of the opinion that should the jury find themselves able to acquit you, no further

action whatsoever should be taken. In such case we think that the bishop may regard your innocence to be

fully established, and in such case we shall recommend his lordship to look upon the matter as altogether at

'You will perceive that, as a consequence of this resolution, to which we have already come, we are not

minded to take any inquiries ourselves into the circumstances of your alleged guilt, till the verdict of the jury

shall be given. But should you be convicted, we must in that case advise the bishop to take the proceedings to

which I have alluded, or to abstain from taking them. We wish to ask you whether, now that our opinion has

been conveyed to you, you will be willing to submit the bishop's decision, in the event of an adverse verdict

being given by the jury; and we think that it will be better for us all that you should meet us here at the hour I

have named on Monday next, the fifteenth instant. It is not our intention to make any report to the bishop

until the trial shall be over.I have the honour to be, my dear sir, your obedient servant,

In the same envelope Dr Tempest sent a short private note, in which he said that he should be very happy to

see Mr Crawley at halfpast one on the Monday named, that luncheon would be ready at that hour, and that,

as Mr Crawley's attendance was required on public grounds, he would take care that a carriage was provided

Mr Crawley received this letter in his wife's presence, and read it in silence. Mrs Crawley saw that he paid

close attention to it, and was sureshe felt that she was surethat it referred in some way to the terrible

subject of the cheque for twenty pounds. Indeed, everything that came into the house, almost every word

spoken there, and every thought that came into the breast of any of the family, had more or less reference to

the coming trial. How could it be otherwise? There was ruin coming on them allruin and complete disgrace

coming on father, mother, and children! To have been accused itself was very bad; but now it seemed to be

the opinion of everyone that the verdict must be against the man. Mrs Crawley herself, who was perfectly

sure of her husband's innocence before God, believed that the jury would find him guiltyand believed also

that he had become possessed of the money in some manner that would have been dishonest, had he not been

so different from other people as to be entitled to be considered innocent where another man would have been

plainly guilty. She was full of the cheque for twenty pounds, and of its results. When, therefore, he had read

the letter through a second time, and even then had spoken no word about it, of course she could not refrain

She was silent for a moment before she spoke again. 'May I not know the business?'

'Have I not answered you? Have I not given you to understand that, for a while at least, I would prefer to keep

the contents of this epistle to myself?' Then he looked at her very sternly, and afterwards turned his eyes upon

the fireplace and gazed at the fire, as though he were striving to read there something of his future fate. She

did not much regard the severity of his speech. That, too, like the taking of the cheque itself, was to be

forgiven him, because he was different from other men. His black mood had come upon him, cutting his

teeth. Let the poor wayward sufferer be ever so petulant, the mother simply pities and loves him, and is never

angry. 'I beg your pardon, Josiah,' she said, 'but I thought it would comfort you to speak to me about it.'

'It will not comfort me,' he said. 'Nothing comforts me. Nothing can comfort me. Jane, give me my hat and

my stick.' His daughter brought to him his hat and stick, and without another word he went out and left them.

As a matter of course he turned his steps towards Hoggle End. When he desired to be long absent from the

house, he always went among the brickmakers. His wife, as she stood at the window and watched the

direction in which he went, knew that he might be away for hours. The only friends out of his own family

with whom he ever spoke freely were some of those rough parishioners. But he was not thinking of the

brickmakers when he started. He was simply desirous of reading again Dr Tempest's letter, and of

considering it, in some spot where no eye could see him. He walked away with long steps, regarding

nothingneither the ruts in the dirty lane, nor the young primroses which were fast showing themselves on

the banks, nor the gathering clouds which might have told him of the coming rain. He went on for a couple of

miles, till he had nearly reached the outskirts of the colony of Hoggle End, and then he sat himself down

upon a gate. He had not been there a minute before a few slow drops began to fall, but he was altogether too

much wrapped up in his thoughts to regard the rain. What answer should he make to this letter from the man

The position of his own mind in reference to his own guilt or his own innocence was very singular. It was

simply the truth that he did not know how the cheque had come to him. He did know that he had blundered

about it most egregiously, especially when he had averred that this cheque for twenty pounds had been

identical with a cheque for another sum which had been given to him by Mr Soames. He had blundered since,

in saying that the dean had given it to him. There could be no doubt as to this, for the dean had denied that he

had done so. And he had come to think it very possible that he had indeed picked the cheque up, and had

afterwards used it, having deposited it by some strange accident not knowing then what he was doing, or

what was the nature of the bit of paper in his handwith the notes which he had accepted from the dean with

so much reluctance, and with such an agony of spirit. In all these thoughts of his own doings, and his own

position, he almost admitted to himself his own insanity, his inability to manage his own affairs with that

degree of rational sequence which is taken for granted as belonging to a man when he is made subject to

criminal laws. As he puzzled his brain in his efforts to create a memory as to the cheque, and succeeded in

bringing to his mind a recollection that he had once known something about the chequethat the cheque had

at one time been the subject of a thought and a resolutionhe admitted to himself that in accordance with all

law and all reason he must be regarded as a thief. He had taken and used and spent that which he ought to

have known was not his ownwhich he would have known not to be his own but for some terrible

incapacity with which God had inflicted him. What then must be the result? His mind was clear enough about

this. If the jury should see everything and know everythingas he would wish that they should do; and if the

bishop's commission, and the bishop himself, and the Court of Arches with its judge, could see and know

everything; and if so seeing and so knowing they could act with clear honesty and perfect wisdomwhat

would they do? They would declare of him that he was not a thief, only because he was so muddyminded,

so addlepated as not to know the difference between meum and tuum! There could be no other end to it, let

all the lawyers and all the clergymen in England put their wits to it. Thought he knew himself to be

muddyminded and addlepated, he could see that. And could anyone say of such a man that he was fit to be

the actingclergyman of a parishto have freehold possession in a parish as curer of men's souls! The

And yet as he sat there on the gate, while the rain came down heavily upon him, even when admitting the

justice of the bishop, and the truth of the verdict which the jury would no doubt give, and the propriety of the

action which that cold, reasonable, prosperous man at Silverbridge would take, he pitied himself with a

tenderness of commiseration which knew no bounds. As for those belonging to him, his wife and children,

his pity for them was of a different kind. He would have suffered any increase of suffering, could he by such

agony have released them. Dearly as he loved them, he would have severed himself from them, had it been

possible. Terrible thoughts as to their fate had come into his mind in the worst moments of his

moodinessthoughts which he had sufficient strength and manliness to put away from him with a strong

hand, lest they should drive him to crime indeed; and these had come from the great pity he had felt for them.

But the commiseration which he had felt for himself had been different from this, and had mostly visited him

at times when that other pity was for the moment in abeyance. What though he had taken the cheque, and

spent the money though it was not his? He might be guilty before the law, but he was not guilty before God.

There had never been a thought of theft in his mind, or a desire to steal in his heart. He knew that well

enough. No jury could make him guilty of theft before God. And what though this mixture of guilt and

innocence had come from madnessfrom madness which these courts must recognise if they chose to find

him innocent of the crime? In spite of his aberrations of intellect, if there were any such, his ministrations in

his parish were good. Had he not preached fervently and wellpreaching the true gospel? Had he not been

very diligent among his people, striving with all his might to lessen the ignorance of the ignorant, and to gild

with godliness the learning of the instructed? Had he not been patient, enduring, instant, and in all things

amenable to the laws and regulations laid down by the Church for his guidance in his duties as a parish

clergyman? Who could point out in what he had been astray, or where he had gone amiss? But for the work

which he had done with so much zeal the Church which he served had paid him so miserable a pittance that,

though life and soul had been kept together, the reason, or a fragment of the reason, had at moments escaped

from his keeping in the scramble. Hence it was that this terrible calamity had fallen upon him! Who had been

tried as he had been tried, and had gone through such fire with less loss of intellectual power than he had

done? He was still a scholar, though no brother scholar ever came near him, and would make Greek iambics

as he walked through the lanes. His memory was stored with poetry, though no book ever came into his

hands, except those shorn and tattered volumes which lay upon his table. Old problems in trigonometry were

the pleasing relaxations of his mind, and complications of figures were a delight to him. There was not one of

those prosperous clergymen around him, and who scorned him, whom he could not have instructed in

Hebrew. It was always a gratification to him to remember that his old friend the dean was weak in his

Hebrew. He, with these acquirements, with these fitnesses, had been thrust down to the groundto the very

graniteand because in that harsh heartless thrusting his intellect had for moments wavered as to common

things, cleaving still to all its grander, nobler possessions, he was now to be rent in pieces and scattered to the

winds, as being altogether vile, worthless, and worse than worthless. It was thus that he thought of himself,

pitying himself, as he sat upon the gate, while the rain fell ruthlessly on his shoulders.

He pitied himself with a commiseration that was sickly in spite of its truth. It was the fault of the man that he

was imbued too strongly with selfconsciousness. He could do a great thing or two. He could keep up his

courage in positions which would wash all the courage out of most men. He could tell the truth though truth

should ruin him. He could sacrifice all that he had to duty. He could do justice though the heaven should fall.

But he could not forget to pay tribute to himself for the greatness of his own actions; nor, when accepting

with an effort of meekness the small payment made by the world to him, in return for his great works, could

he forget the great payments made to others for small work. It was not sufficient for him to remember that he

Nevertheless, as he sat there under the rain, he made up his mind with a clearness that certainly had in it

nothing of that muddiness of mind of which he had often accused himself. Indeed, the intellect of this man

was essentially clear. It was simply that his memory that would play him trickshis memory as to things

which at the moment were not important to him. The fact that the dean had given him money was very

important, and he remembered it well. But the amount of the money, and its form, at a moment in which he

had flattered himself that he might have strength to leave it unused, had not been important to him. Now, he

resolved that he would go to Dr Tempest, and that he would tell Dr Tempest that there was not occasion for

any further inquiry. He would submit to the bishop, let the bishop's decision be what it might. Things were

different since the day on which he had refused Mr Thumble admission to his pulpit. At that time people

believed him to be innocent, and he so believed of himself. Now, people believed him to be guilty, and it

could not be right that a man held in such slight esteem could exercise the functions of a parish priest, let his

own opinion of himself be what it might. He would submit himself, and go anywhereto the galleys or the

workhouse, if they wished it. As for his wife and children, they would, he said to himself, be better without

him than with him. The world would never be so hard to a woman or to children as it had been to him.

He was sitting saturated with rainsaturated also with thinking and quite unobservant of anything around

him, when he was accosted by an old man from Hoggle End, with whom he was well acquainted. 'Thee be

'Wet!' said Crawley, recalled suddenly back to the realities of life. 'Wellyes. I am wet. That's because it's

'And are you not wet also,' said Mr Crawley, looking at the old man, who had been at work in the brickfield,

and who was soaked with mire, and from whom there seemed to come a steam of muddy mist.

'Is it me, yer reverence? I'm wat of course. The loikes of us is always watthat is barring the insides of us. It

comes to us natural to have the rheumatics. How is one of us to help hisself against having on 'em? But there

'My friend,' said Crawley, who was now standing on the roadand as he spoke he put out his arm and took

the brickmaker by the hand, 'there is a worse complaint than rheumatismthere is, indeed.'

'There's what they calls the collerer,' said Giles Hoggett, looking up into Crawley's face. 'That ain't agot hold

'Ay, and worse than the cholera. A man is killed all over when he is struck with prideand yet he lives.'

'Maybe that's bad enough too,' said Giles, with his hand still held by the other.

'It is bad enough,' said Crawley, striking his breast with his left hand. 'It is bad enough.'

'Tell 'ee what, Master Crawley;and yer reverence mustn't think as I means to be preaching; there ain't nowt

a man can't bear if he'll only be dogged. You to whome, Master Crawley, and think o' that, and maybe it'll do

ye a good yet. It's dogged as does it. It ain't thinking about it.' Then Giles Hoggett withdrew his hand from the

clergyman's, and walked away towards his home at Hoggle End. Mr Crawley also turned away homewards,

and as he made his way through the lanes, he repeated to himself Giles Hoggett's words. 'It's dogged as does

He did not say a word to his wife on that afternoon about Dr Tempest; and she was so much taken up with his

outward condition when he returned, as almost to have forgotten the letter. He allowed himself, but barely

allowed himself, to be made dry, and then for the remainder of the day applied himself to learn the lesson

which Hoggett had endeavoured to teach him. But the learning of it was not easy, and hardly became more

easy when he had worked the problem out in his own mind, and discovered that the brickmaker's doggedness

simply meant selfabnegationthat a man should force himself to endure anything that might be sent upon

Early on the next morning, he told his wife that he was going into Silverbridge. 'It is that letterthe letter

which I got yesterday that calls me,' he said. And then he handed her the letter as to which he had refused to

'I find it more suitable that I should go today,' said he. 'Some duty I do owe in this matter, both to the bishop,

and to Dr Tempest, who, after a fashion is, as regards my present business, the bishop's representative. But I

do not perceive that I owe it as a duty to either to obey implicitly their injunctions, and I will not submit

myself to the crossquestioning of the man Thumble. As I am purposed at present I shall express my

'Yes, altogether.' As he spoke he clasped both his hands together, and having held them for a moment on

high, allowed them to fall thus clasped before him. 'I cannot give it up in part; I cannot abandon the duties

'I have thought of it, and I will think of it. Farewell, my dear.' Then he came up to her and kissed her, and

It was about noon when he reached Silverbridge, and he was told that Doctor Tempest was at home. The

servant asked him for a card. 'I have no card,' said Mr Crawley, 'but I will write my name for your behoof if

your master's hospitality will allow me paper and pencil.' The name was written, and as Crawley waited in the

drawingroom he spent his time in hating Dr Tempest because the door had been opened by a manservant

dressed in black. Had the man been in livery he would have hated Dr Tempest all the same. And he would

'Your letter came to hand yesterday morning, Dr Tempest,' said Mr Crawley, still standing, though the doctor

had pointed to a chair for him after shaking hands with him; 'and having given yesterday to the consideration

of it, with what judgment I have been able to exercise, I have felt it to be incumbent upon me to wait upon

you without further delay, as by doing so I may perhaps assist your views and save labour to those gentlemen

who are joined with you in this commission of which you have spoken. To some of them it may possibly be

Dr Tempest had been looking at him during this speech, and could see by his shoes and trousers that he had

walked from Hogglestock to Silverbridge. 'Mr Crawley, will you not sit down?' said he, and then he rang his

bell. Mr Crawley sat down, not on the chair indicated, but on the further removed and at the other side of the

table. When the servant camethe objectionable butler in black clothes that were so much smarter than Mr

Crawley's ownhis master's orders were communicated without any audible word, and the man returned

'After your walk, Mr Crawley,' said Dr Tempest, getting up from his seat to pour out wine.

'Now, Mr Crawley,' said Dr Tempest, 'do let me speak to you as a friend. You have walked eight miles, and

are going to talk to me on a subject which is of vital importance to yourself. I won't discuss it unless you'll

'I'm quite in earnest. I won't. If you do as I ask, you shall talk to me till dinnertime, if you like. There. Now

Mr Crawley did eat the biscuit and did drink the wine, and as he did so, he acknowledged to himself that Dr

Tempest was right. He felt that the wine had made him stronger to speak. 'I hardly know why you have

preferred today to next Monday,' said Dr Tempest; 'but if anything can be done by your presence here today,

'I have preferred today to Monday,' said Crawley, 'partly because I would sooner talk to one man than to five.'

'And as I have made up my mind as to the course of action which it is my duty to take in the matter to which

your letter of the ninth of this month refers, there can be no reason why I should postpone the declaration of

my purpose. Dr Tempest, I have determined to resign my preferment at Hogglestock, and shall today write to

'I mean, sir, to do this without reference to any event that is future. The bishop, Dr Tempest, when I shall

have been proved to be a thief, shall have no trouble either in causing my suspension or my deprivation. The

name and fame of a parish clergyman should be unstained. Mine have become foul with infamy. I will not

wait to be deprived by any court, by any bishop, or by any commission. I will bow my head to that public

He had got up from his chair, and was standing as he pronounced the final sentence against himself. Dr

Tempest still remained seated in his chair, looking at him, and for a few moments there was silence. 'You

'Then the dean must not take your resignation. Speaking to you frankly, I tell you that there is no prevailing

'Stop a moment, Mr Crawley. It is possible that you might say that which should not be said.'

'There is nothing to be saidnothing which I could say, which I would not say at the Town Cross if it were

possible. As to this money, I do not know whether I stole it or whether I did not.'

'Thank you, Dr Tempest. I thank you heartily for saying so much. But, sir, you are not the jury. Nor, if you

were, could you whitewash me from the infamy which has been cast upon me. Against the opinion expressed

at the beginning of these proceedings by the bishop of this dioceseor rather against that expressed by his

wifeI did venture to make a stand. Neither the opinion which came from the palace, nor the vehicle by

which it was expressed, commanded my respect. Since that, others have spoken to whom I feel myself bound

to yieldyourself not the least among them, Dr Tempestand to them I shall yield. You may tell the

Bishop of Barchester, that I shall at once resign the perpetual curacy of Hogglestock into the hands of the

'No, Mr Crawley; I shall not do that. I cannot control you, but thinking you to be wrong, I shall not make that

At that moment Mr Crawley called to mind the advice of his friend Giles Hoggett. 'It'd dogged as does it.' He

certainly wanted something very strong to sustain him in this difficulty. He found that this reference to his

wife and children required him to be dogged in a very marked manner. 'I can only trust that the wind may be

Dr Tempest got up from his chair, and took a couple of turns about the room before he spoke again. 'Man,' he

said, addressing Mr Crawley with all his energy, 'if you do this thing, you will then at least be very wicked. If

the jury find a verdict in your favour you are safe, and the chances are that the verdict will be in your favour.'

'It's dogged as does it,' said Mr Crawley to himself. 'I have thought of that,' he said aloud. 'That my wife is

dear to me, and that my children are dear, I will not deny. She was softly nurtured, Dr Tempest, and came

from a house in which want was never known. Since she has shared my board she has had some experience

of that nature. That I should have brought her to all this is very terrible to meso terrible, that I often

wonder how it is that I live. But, sir, you will agree with me, that my duty as a clergyman is above

everything. I do not dare, even for their sake, to remain in the parish. Good morning, Dr Tempest.' Dr

Tempest, finding that he could not prevail with him, bade him adieu, feeling that any service to the Crawleys

within in his power might be best done by intercession with the bishop and with the dean.

Then Mr Crawley walked back to Hogglestock, repeating to himself Giles Hoggett's words, 'It's dogged as

Mr Crawley, when he got home after his walk to Silverbridge, denied that he was at all tired. 'The man at

Silverbridge, whom I went to see administered refreshment to me;nay, he administered it with salutary

violence,' he said, affecting even to laugh. 'And I am bound to speak well of him on behalf of mercies over

and beyond that exhibited by the persistent tender of some wine. That I should find him judicious I had

expected. What little I have known of him taught me so to think of him. But I found with him also a softness

'Most certainly I will. A duty, when it is clear before a man, should never be made less so by any tenderness

in others.' He was still thinking of Giles Hoggett. 'It's dogged as does it.' The poor woman could not answer

him. She knew well that it was vain to argue with him. She could only hope that in the event of his being

acquitted at the trial, the dean, whose friendship she did not doubt, might reendow him with the small

On the following morning there came by post a short note from Dr Tempest. 'My dear Mr Crawley,' the note

ran, 'I implore you, if there be yet time, to do nothing rashly. And even though you should have written to the

bishop or to the dean, your letters need have no effect, if you will allow me to make them inoperative. Permit

me to say that I am a man much older than you, and one who has mixed much both with clergymen and with

the world at large. I tell you with absolute confidence, that it is not your duty in your present position to give

up your living. Should your conduct ever be called in question on this matter you will be at perfect liberty to

say that you were guided by my advice. You should take no step till after the trial. Then, if the verdict be

against you, you should submit to the bishop's judgment. If the verdict be in your favour, the bishop's

'And you must remember that if it is not your duty as a clergyman to give up your living, you can have no

right, seeing that you have a wife and family, to throw it away as an indulgence to your pride. Consult any

other friend you pleaseMr Robarts, or the dean himself. I am quite sure that any friend who knows many

of the circumstances as I know will advise you to hold the living, at any rate till after the trial. You can refer

Mr Crawley walked about again with this letter in his pocket, but on this occasion he did not go in the

direction of Hoggle End. From Hoggle End he could hardly hope to pick up further lessons of wisdom. What

could any Giles Hoggett say to him beyond what he had said to him already? If he were to read the doctor's

letter to Hoggett, and to succeed in making Hoggett understand it, Hoggett could only caution him to be

dogged. But it seemed to him that Hoggett and his new friend at Silverbridge did not agree in their doctrines,

and it might be well that he should endeavour to find out which of them had most of justice on his side. He

was quite sure that Hoggett would advise him to adhere to his project of giving up the livingif only

His letter to the bishop would be but a note, and he had postponed the writing of that till the other should be

He had sat up late into the night composing and altering his letter to his old friend, and now that the

composition was finished he was loth to throw it away. Early in this morning, before the postman had

brought to him Dr Tempest's urgent remonstrance, he had shown to his wife the draft of his letter to the dean.

'But I wish, my dear, you would not send it. Why should you take any step till the trial be over?'

'I shall assuredly send it,' he had replied. 'If you will peruse it again, you will see that the epistle would be

'They are not pleasant, but it will be well that you should become used to them. As for the letter, I have taken

some trouble to express myself with perspicuity, and I trust that I may have succeeded.' At that time Hoggett

was altogether in the ascendant; but now, as he started on his walk, his mind was somewhat perturbed by the

contrary advice of one, who after all, might be as wise as Hoggett. There would be nothing dogged in the

conduct recommended to him by Dr Tempest. Were he to follow the doctor's advice, he would be trimming

his sails, so as to catch any slant of a breeze that might be favourable to him. There could be no doggedness

The postman came to Hogglestock but once a day, so that he could not despatch his letter till the next

morningunless, indeed, he chose to send it a distance of four miles to the nearest postoffice. As there was

nothing to justify this, there was another night for the copying of his lettershould he at last determine to

send it. He had sworn to his wife that it should go. He had taken much trouble with it. He believed in

Hoggett. But, nevertheless, this incumbency of Hogglestock was his all in the world. It might be that he could

still hold it, and have bread at least for his wife to eat. Dr Tempest had told him that he would be probably

acquitted. Dr Tempest knew as much of all the circumstances as he did himself, and had told him that he was

If he resigned the living, what would become of himof himof him and his wife? Whither would they

first go when they turned their back upon the door inside which there had at any rate been shelter for them for

so many years? He calculated everything that he had, and found that at the end of April, even when he should

have received his rentcharge, there would not be five pounds in hand among them. As for his furniture, he

still owed enough to make it impossible that he should get anything out of that. And these thoughts all had

reference to his position if he should be acquitted. What would become of his wife if he should be convicted?

He had completely realised the idea that Hoggett's counsel was opposed to that given to him by Dr Tempest;

but then it might certainly be the case that Hoggett had not known all the facts. A man should, no doubt, be

dogged when the evils of life are insuperable; but need he be so when the evils can be overcome? Would not

Hoggett himself undergo any treatment which he believed to be specific for rheumatism? Yes; Hoggett would

undergo any treatment that was not in itself opposed to his duty. The best treatment for rheumatism might be

to stay away from the brick field on a rainy day; but if so, there would be no money to keep the pot boiling,

and Hoggett would certainly go to the brickfield, rheumatism and all, as long as his limbs would carry him

there. Yes; he would send his letter. It was his duty, and he would do it. Men looked askance at him, and

pointed at him as a thief. He would send the letter, in spite of Dr Tempest. Let justice be done, though the

He had heard of Lady Lufton's to his wife. The offers of the Lady Luftons of the world had been sorely

distressing to his spirit, since it had first come to pass that such offers had reached him in consequence of his

poverty. But now there was something almost of relief to him in the thought that the Lady Luftons would,

after some fashion, save his wife and children from starvationwould save his wife from the poorhouse, and

enable his children to have a start in the world. For one of his children a brilliant marriage might be

providedif only he himself were out of the way. How could he take himself out of the way? It had been

whispered to him that he might be imprisoned for two monthsor for two years. Would it not be a grand

thing if the judge would condemn him to be imprisoned for life? Was thee ever a man whose existence was

so purposeless, so useless, so deleterious, as his own? And yet he knew Hebrew well, whereas the dean knew

but very little Hebrew. He could make Greek iambics, and doubted whether the bishop knew the difference

between an iambus and a trochee. He could disport himself with trigonometry, feeling confident that Dr

Tempest had forgotten his way over the asses' bridge. He knew 'Lycidas' by heart; and as for Thumble, he felt

quite sure that Thumble was incompetent of understanding a single allusion in that divine poem.

Nevertheless, though all his wealth of acquirement was his, it would be better for himself, better for those

who belonged to him, better for the world at large, that he should be put an end to. A sentence of penal

servitude for life, without any trial, would be of all things the most desirable. Then there would be ample

When he returned home the Hoggethan doctrine prevailed, and he prepared to copy his letter. But before he

commenced his task, he sat down with his youngest daughter, and reador made her read to hima passage

of a Greek poem, in which are described the troubles and agonies of a blind giant. No giant would have been

more powerfulonly that he was blind, and could not see to avenge himself on those who had injured him.

'The same story is always coming up,' he said, stopping the girl in her reading. 'We have it in various

"Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves."

It is the same story. Great power reduced to impotence, great glory to misery, by the hand of

FateNecessity, as the Greeks called her; to goddess that will not be shunned. At the mill with slaves!

People, when they read it, do not appreciate the horror of the picture. Go on my dear. It may be a question

whether Polyphemus had mind enough to suffer; but, from the description of his power, I should think he

had. "At the mill with slaves!" Can any picture be more dreadful than that? Go on, my dear. Of course you

remember Milton's Samson Agonistes. Agonistes indeed!' His wife was sitting stitching at the other side of

the room; but she heard his wordsheard and understood them; and before Jane could again get herself into

the swing of the Greek verse, she was over at her husband's side, with her arms round his neck. 'My love!' she

He turned to her, and smiled as he spoke to her. 'These are old thoughts with me. Polyphemus and Belisarius,

and Samson and Milton, have always been pets of mine. The mind of the strong blind creature must be

sensible of the injury that he has been done to him! The impotency, combined with the strength, or rather the

impotency with the misery of former strength and former aspirations, is so essentially tragic!'

She looked into his eyes as he spoke, and there was something of the flash of old days, when the world was

young to them, and when he would tell her of his hopes, and repeat to her long passages of poetry, and would

criticise for her advantage the works of the old writers. 'Thank God,' she said, 'that you are not blind. It may

'Or, at any rate, not eyeless in Gaza, if the Lord is good to me. Come, Jane, we will go on.' Then he took up

the passage himself, and read it on with clear, sonorous voice, every now and then explaining some passage

or expressing his own ideas upon it, as though he were really happy with his poetry.

It was late in the evening before he got out his small stock of best letterpaper, and sat down to work at his

letter. He first addressed himself to the bishop; and what he wrote down to the bishop was as follows:

'I have been in communication with Dr Tempest, of Silverbridge, from whom I have learned that your

lordship has been pleased to appoint a commission of inquiryof which commission he is the

chairmanwith reference to the proceedings which it may be necessary that you should take, as bishop of

the diocese, after my forthcoming trial at the approaching Barchester assizes. My lord, I think it right to

inform you, partly with a view to the comfort of the gentlemen named on that commission, and partly with

the purport of giving you the information which I think that a bishop should possess in regard to the clerical

affairs of his own diocese, that I have by this post resigned my preferment at Hogglestock into the hands of

the Dean of Barchester, by whom it was given to me. In these circumstances, it will, I suppose, be

unnecessary for you to continue the commission which you have set in force; but as to that, your lordship

will, of course, be the only judge.I have the honour to be, my Lord Bishop, your most obedient and very

'JOSIAH CRAWLEY Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock 'The Right Reverend 'The Bishop of Barchester, 'c

But the letter which was of real importancewhich was intended to say somethingwas that to the dean,

and that also shall be given to the reader. Mr Crawley had been for a while in doubt how he should address

his old friend in commencing this letter, understanding that its tone throughout must be, in a great degree, be

mad conformable with its first words. He would fain, in his pride, have begun 'Sir'. The question was between

that and 'My dear Arabin'. It had once between them always been 'Dear Frank,' and Dear Joe'' but the

occasions for 'Dear Frank' and 'Dear Joe' between them had long been past. Crawley would have been very

angry had he now been called Joe by the dean, and would have bitten his tongue out before he would have

called the dean Frank. His better nature, however, now prevailed, and he began his letter, and completed it as

'Circumstances, of which you have probably heard something, compel me to write to you, as I fear, at some

length. I am sorry that the trouble of such a letter should be forced upon you during your holidays';Mr

Crawley, as he wrote this, did not forget to remind himself that he never had any holidays;'but I think you

'I have been accused of stealing a cheque for twenty pounds, which cheque was drawn by Lord Lufton on his

London bankers, and was lost out of his pocket by Mr Soames, his lordship's agent, and was so lost, as Mr

Soames statesbut with an absolute assertionduring a visit which he made to my parsonage here at

Hogglestock. Of the fact that I paid the cheque to a tradesman in Silverbridge there is no doubt. When

questioned about it, I first gave an answer which was so manifestly incorrect that it has seemed odd to me that

I should not have had credit for a mistake from those who must have seen that detection was so evident. The

blunder was undoubtedly stupid, and it now bears heavily on me. I then, as I have learned, made another

errorof which I am aware that you have been informed. I said that the cheque had come from you, and in

saying so, I thought that it had formed a portion of that alms which your openhanded benevolence bestowed

upon me when I attended on you, not long before your departure, in your library. I have striven to remember

the facts. It may benay, it probably is the casethat such struggles to catch some accurate glimpse of

bygone things do not trouble you. You mind is, no doubt, clearer and stronger than mine, having been kept to

its proper tune by greater and fitter work. With me, memory is all but gone, and the power of thinking is on

the wane! I struggled to remember, and I thought that the cheque had been in an envelope which you handed

to meand I said so. I have since learned, from tidings received, as I am told, direct from yourself, that I was

wrong in the second statement as I had been in the first. The double blunder has, of course, been very heavy

'I was taken before the magistrates at Silverbridge, and was by them committed to stand my trial at the assizes

to be holden in Barchester on the twentyeighth of this month. Without doubt, the magistrates had not

alternative but to commit me, and I am indebted to them that they have allowed me my present liberty upon

bail. That my sufferings in all this should have been grievous, you will understand. But on that head I shall

not touch, were it not that I am bound to explain to you that my troubles with reference to this parish of

Hogglestock, to which I was appointed by you, have not been the slightest of those sufferings. I felt at first,

believing then that the world around me would think it unlikely that such a one as I had wilfully stolen a sum

of money, that it was my duty to maintain myself in my church. I did so maintain myself against an attack

made upon me by the bishop, who sent over to Hogglestock one Mr Thumble, a gentleman doubtless in holy

orders, though I know nothing and can learn nothing of the place of his cure, to dispossess me of my pulpit

and to remove me from my ministrations among my people. To Mr Thumble I turned a deaf ear, and would

not let him so much as open his mouth inside the porch of my church. Up to this time I myself have read the

services, and have preached to the people, and have continued, as best I could, my visits to the poor and my

labours in the school, though I know no one knows as wellhow unfitted I am for such work by the grief

'Then the bishop sent for me, and I thought it becoming on my part to go to him. I presented myself to his

lordship at his palace, and was minded to be much governed in my conduct by what he might say to me,

remembering that I am bound to respect the office, even though I may not approve of the man; and I humbled

myself before his lordship, waiting patiently for any directions which he in his discretion might think it

proper to bestow on me. But there arose up between us that very pestilent woman, his wifeto his dismay,

seemingly, as much as to mineand she would let there place for no speech but her own. If there be aught

clear to me in ecclesiastical matters, it is thisthat no authority can be delegated to a female. The special

laws of this and of some other countries do allow that women shall sit upon the temporal thrones of the earth,

but on the lowest step of the throne of the Church no woman has been allowed to sit as bearing authority, the

romantic tale of the woman Pope notwithstanding. Thereupon, I left the palace in wrath, feeling myself

aggrieved that a woman should have attempted to dictate to me, and finding it hopeless to get a clear

instruction from his lordshipthe woman taking up the word whenever I put a question to my lord the

bishop. Nothing, therefore, came of that interview but fruitless labour to myself, and anger, of which I have

'Since that time I have continued in my parishworking, not without zeal, though, in truth, almost without

hopeand learning even from day to day that the opinion of men around me have declared me to be guilty of

the crime imputed to me. And now the bishop has issued a commission as preparatory to proceedings against

me under the Act for the punishment for clerical offences. In doing this, I cannot say that the bishop has been

illadvised, even though the advice may have come from that eviltongued lady, his wife. And I hold that a

woman may be called upon for advice, with most salutary effect, in affairs as to which any show of female

authority should be equally false and pernicious. With me it has ever been so, and I have had a counsellor by

me as wise as she has been devoted.' It must be noticed that in the draft copy of his letter which Mr Crawley

gave to his wife to read this last sentence was not inserted. Intending that she should read his letter, he

omitted it till he made the fair copy. 'Over this commission his lordship has appointed Dr Tempest of

Silverbridge to preside, and with him I have been in communication. I trust that the labours of the gentlemen

of whom it is composed may be brought to a speedy close; and, having regard to their trouble, I have

informed Dr Tempest that I should write this letter to you with the intent and assured purpose of resigning the

'You will be good enough, therefore, to understand that I do so resign the living, and that I shall continue to

administer the services of the Church only till some clergyman, certified to me as coming from you or from

the bishop, may present himself in the parish, and shall declare himself prepared to undertake the cure.

Should it be so that Mr Thumble be sent hither again, I will sit under him, endeavouring to catch

improvement from his teaching, and striving to overcome the contempt which I felt for him when he before

visited this parish. I annex beneath my signature a copy of the letter which I have written to the bishop on this

'And now it behoves me, as the guardianship of the souls of those was placed in my hands by you, to explain

to you as shortly as may be possible the reasons which had induced me to abandon my work. One or two

whose judgment I do not discreditand I am allowed to name Dr Tempest of Silverbridge as onehave

suggested to me that I should take no step till after my trial. They think that I should have regard to the

chance of the verdict, so that the preferment may still be mine should I be acquitted; and they say, that should

I be acquitted, the bishop's action against me must of necessity cease. That they are right in these facts I do

not doubt; but in giving such advice they look only to the facts, having no regard to the conscience. I do not

blame them. I should give such advice myself, knowing that a friend may give counsel as to outer things, but

that a man must satisfy his inner conscience by his own perceptions of what is right and what is wrong.

'I find myself to be illspoken of, to be regarded with hard eyes by those around me, my people thinking that

I have stolen this money. Two farmers in this parish, have, as I am aware, expressed opinions that no jury

could acquit me honestly, and neither of these men have appeared in my church since the expression of that

opinion. I doubt whether they have gone to other churches; and if not they have been deterred from all public

worship by my presence. If this be so, how can I with a clear conscience remain among these men? Shall I

take from their hands wages for those administrations, which their deliberately formed opinions will not

allow them to accept from my hands?' And yet, though he thus pleaded against himself, he knew that the two

men of whom he was speaking were thickheaded dolts who were always tipsy in Saturday nights, and who

'Your kind heart will doubtless prompt you to tell me that no clergyman could be safe in his parish if he were

to allow the opinion of chance parishioners to prevail against him; and you would probably lay down for my

guidance the grand old doctrine "Nil conscire sibi; nulla pallescere culpa." Presuming that you may do so, I

will acknowledge such guidance to be good. If my mind were clear in this matter, I would not budge an inch

for any farmerno, nor for any bishop, further than he might by law compel me! But my mind is not clear. I

do grow pale, and my hairs stands on end with horror, as I confess to myself that I do not know whether I

stole this money or no! Such is the fact. In all sincerity I tell you that I know not whether I be guilty or

innocent. It may be that I picked up the cheque from the floor of my room, and afterwards took it out and

used it, not knowing whence it had come to me. If it be so, I stole it, and am guilty before the laws of my

country. If it be so, I am not fit to administer the Lord's sacraments to these people. When the cup was last in

my hand and I was blessing them, I felt that I was not fit, and I almost dropped the chalice. That God will

know my weakness and pardon me the perplexity of my mindthat is between Him and His creature.

'As I read my letter over to myself I feel how weak are my words, and how inefficient to explain to you the

exact position in which I stand; but they will suffice to convince you that I am assuredly purposed to resign

this parish of Hogglestock, and that it is therefore incumbent on you, as patron of the living, to nominate my

successor to the benefice. I have only further to ask your pardon for this long letter, and to thank you again

for the many and great marks of friendship which you have conferred on me. Alas, could you have foreseen

in those old days how barren of all good would have been the life of him you then esteemed, you might

perhaps have escaped the disgrace of being called the friend of one whom no one now regards with

esteem. Nevertheless, I may still say that I am, with all affection, yours truly, 'JOSIAH CRAWLEY'

The last paragraph of the letter was also added, since his wife had read it. When he had first composed the

letter, he had been somewhat proud of his words, thinking that he had clearly told his story. But, when sitting

alone at his desk, he read it again, filling his mind as he went on with ideas which he would fain have

expressed to his old friend, were it not that he feared to indulge himself with too many words, he began to tell

himself that his story was anything but well told. There was no expression there of the Hoggethan doctrine. In

answer to such a letter as that the dean might well say, 'Think again of it. Try yet to save yourself. Never

mind the two farmers, or Mr Thumble, or the bishop. Stick to the ship while there is a plank above the water.'

Whereas it had been his desire to use words that should make the dean clearly understand that the thing was

decided. He had failedas he had failed in everything throughout his life; but nevertheless the letter must

go. Were he to begin again he would not do it better. So he added to what he had written a copy of his note to

Mrs Crawley might probably have been more instant in her efforts to stop the letter, had she not felt that it

would not decide everything. In the first place it was improbable that the letter might not reach the dean till

after his return homeand Mrs Crawley had long since made up her mind that she would see the dean as

soon as possible after his return. She had heard from Lady Lufton that it was not doubted in Barchester that

he would be back at any rate before the judges came into the city. And then, in the next place, was it probable

that the dean would act upon such a letter by filling up the vacancy, even if he did get it? She trusted in the

dean, and knew that he would help them, if any help were possible. Should the verdict go against her

husband, then indeed it might be that no help would be possible. In such case she thought that the bishop with

his commission might prevail. But she still believed that the verdict would be favourable, if not with an

assured belief, still with a hope that was sufficient to stand in lieu of a belief. No single man, let alone no

twelve men, could think that her husband had intended to appropriate the money dishonestly. That he had

taken it improperlywithout real possessionshe herself believed; but he had not taken it as a thief, and

could not merit a thief's punishment. After two days he got a reply from the bishop's chaplain, in which the

chaplain expressed the bishop's commendation of Mr Crawley's present conduct. 'Mr Thumble shall proceed

from hence to Hogglestock on next Sunday,' said the chaplain, 'and shall relieve you for the present from the

burden of your duties. As to the future status of the parish, it will perhaps be best that nothing shall be done

till the dean returns or perhaps till the assizes shall be over. This is the bishop's opinion.' It need hardly be

explained that the promised visit of Mr Thumble to Hogglestock was gall and wormwood to Mr Crawley. He

had told the dean that should Mr Thumble come, he would endeavour to learn something even from him. But

it may be doubted whether Mr Crawley in his present mood could learn anything useful from Mr Thumble.

'I will endure even that,' he said to his wife, as she handed to him back the letter from the bishop's chaplain.

The crossgrainedness of men is so great that things will often be forced to go wrong, even when they have

the strongest possible natural tendency of their own to go right. It was now in these affairs between the

archdeacon and his son. The original difficulty was solved by the good feeling of the young ladyby that

and by the real kindness of the archdeacon's nature. They had come to terms which were satisfactory to both

of them, and those terms admitted of perfect reconciliation between the father and his son. Whether the major

did marry the lady or whether he did not, his allowance was to be continued to him, the archdeacon being

perfectly willing to trust himself in the matter to the pledge which had received from Miss Crawley. All that

he had required from his son was simply thisthat he should pull down the bills advertising the sale of his

effects. Was any desire more rational? The sale had been advertised for a day just one week in advance of the

assizes, and the time must have been selectedso thought the archdeaconwith a malicious intention. Why,

at any rate, should the things be sold before anyone knew whether the father of the young lady was or was not

to be regarded as a thief? And why should the things be sold at all, when the archdeacon had tacitly

withdrawn his threatswhen he had given his son to understand that the allowance would still be paid

quarterly with the customary archidiaconal regularity, and that no alteration was intended in those settlements

under which the Plumstead foxes would, in the ripeness of time, become the property of the major himself. It

was thus that the archdeacon looked at it, and as he did so, he thought that his son was the most

But the major had his own way of looking at the matter. He had, he flattered himself, dealt very fairly with

his father. When he had first made up his mind to make Miss Crawley his wife, he had told his father of his

intention. The archdeacon declared that, if he did so, such and such results would followresults which, as

was apparent to everyone, would make it indispensable that the major should leave Cosby Lodge. The major

had never complained. So he told himself. He had simply said to his father'I shall do as I have said. You

can do as you have said. Therefore, I shall prepare to leave Cosby Lodge.' He had so prepared; and as a part

of that preparation, the auctioneer's bills had been stuck up on the posts and walls. Then the archdeacon had

gone to work surreptitiously with the ladythe reader will understand that we are still following the

workings of the major's mindand having succeeded in obtaining a pledge which he had been wrong to

demand, came forward very graciously to withdraw his threats. He withdrew his threats because he had

succeeded in his object by other means. The major knew nothing of the kiss that had been given, of the two

tears that had trickled down his father's nose, of the generous epithets which the archdeacon had applied to

Grace. He did not guess how nearly his father had yielded altogether beneath the pressure of Grace's

charmshow willing he was to yield altogether at the first decent opportunity. His father had obtained a

pledge from Grace that she would not marry in certain circumstancesas to which circumstances the major

was strongly resolved that they should form no bar to his marriageand then came forward with his eager

demand that the sale should be stopped! The major could not submit to so much indignity. He had resolved

that his father should have nothing to do with his marriage one way or the other. He would not accept

anything from his father on the understanding that his father had any such right. His father had asserted such

right with threats, and he, the major, taking such threats as meaning something, had seen that he must leave

Cosby Lodge. Let his father come forward, and say that they meant nothing that he abandoned all right to any

interference as to his son's marriage, and that the sonwould dutifully consent to accept his father's bounty!

They were both crossgrained, as Mrs Grantly declared; but I think that the major was the most

Something of the truth made its way to Henry Grantly's mind as he drove home from Barchester after seeing

his grandfather. It was not that he began to think that his father was right, but that he almost perceived that it

might be becoming to him to forgive some fault in his father. He had been implored to honour his father, and

he was willing to do so, understanding that such honour must, to a certain degree, imply obedienceif it

could be done at no more than a moderate expense of his feelings. The threatened auctioneer was the cause of

offence to his father, and he might see whether it would not be possible to have the sale postponed. There

would, of course, be a pecuniary loss, and that in his diminished circumstancesmight be inconvenient. But

so much he thought himself bound to endure on his father's behalf. At any rate, he would consult the

But he would not make any pause in the measures which he had proposed to himself as likely to be conducive

to his marriage. As for Grace's pledge, such pledges from young ladies never went for anything. It was out of

the question that she should be sacrificed, even though his father had taken the money. And, moreover, the

very gist of the major's generosity was to consist in his marrying her whether her father were guilty or

innocent. He understood that perfectly, and understood also that it was his duty to make his purpose in this

respect known to Grace's family. He determined, therefore, that he would go over to Hogglestock, and see Mr

Hitherto Major Grantly had never spoken to Mr Crawley. It may be remembered that the major was at the

present moment one of the bailsmen for the due appearance of Mr Crawley before the judge, and that he had

been present when the magistrates sat at the inn in Silverbridge. He therefore knew the man's presence, but

except on that occasion he had never even seen his intended future fatherinlaw. From that moment when

he had first allowed himself to think of Grace, he had desired, yet almost feared, to make acquaintance with

the father; but had been debarred from doing so by the peculiar position in which Mr Crawley was placed. He

had felt that it would be impossible to speak to the father of his affection for the daughter without any

allusion to the coming trial; and he did not know how such allusion could be made. Thinking of this, he had

at different times almost resolved not to call at Hogglestock till the trial might be over. Then he would go

there, let the result of the trial have been what it might. But it had now become necessary for him to go on at

once. His father had precipitated matters by his appeal to Grace. He would appeal to Grace's father, and reach

He drove over to Hogglestock, feeling himself to be anything but comfortable as he came near to the house.

And when he did reach the spot he was somewhat disconcerted to find that another visitor was in the house

before him. He presumed this to be the case, because there stood a little pony horsean animal which did

not recommend itself to his instructed eyeattached by its rein to the palings. It was a poor humblelooking

beast, whose knees had very lately become acquainted with the hard and sharp stones of a newlymended

'That he won't, sir,' said the man. 'But I don't think he's been very much good for some time back.'

'I shouldn't like to have to ride him into Silverbridge,' said the major, descending from the gig, and instructing

his servant to move the horse and gig about as long as he might remain within the house. Then he walked

across the little garden and knocked at the door. The door was immediately opened, and in the passage he

found Mr Crawley and another clergyman whom the reader will recognise as Mr Thumble. Mr Thumble had

come over to make arrangements as to the Sunday services and the parochial work, and had been very urgent

in impressing on Mr Crawley that the duties were to be left entirely to himself. Hence had come some bitter

words, in which Mr Crawley, though no doubt he said the sharper things of the two, had not been able to

'There must be no interference, my dear sirnot whatever, if you please,' Mr Thumble had said.

'There shall be none of which the bishop shall have reason to complain,' Mr Crawley had replied.

'There must be none at all, Mr Crawley, if you please. It is only on that understanding that I have consented to

take the parish temporarily into my hands. Mrs Crawley, I hope that there may be no mistake about the

'Sir,' said Mr Crawley, very irate at this appeal to his wife, and speaking in a loud voice, 'do you misdoubt my

word; or do you think that if I were minded to be false to you, that I should be corrected in my falsehood by

'Having resigned the benefice for certain reasons of my own, with which I shall not trouble you, and

acknowledging as I doand have done in writing under my hand to the bishopthe propriety of his

lordship's interference in providing for the services of the parish till any successor shall have been instituted, I

shall, with what feelings of regret, I need not say, leave you to the performance of your temporary duties.'

'The bishop especially desires' began Mr Thumble. But Mr Crawley interrupted him instantly.

'If the bishop has directed you to give me such instructions, the bishop is much in error. I will submit to

receive none from him through you, sir. If you please, sir, let there be an end of it'; and Mr Crawley waved

his hand. I hope the reader will conceive the tone of Mr Crawley's voice, and will appreciate the aspect of his

face, and will see the motion of his hand, as he spoke these latter words. Mr Thumble felt the power of the

man so sensibly that he was unable to carry on the contest. Thought Mr Crawley was now but a broken reed,

and was beneath his feet, yet Mr Thumble acknowledged to himself that he could not hold his own in debate

with this broken reed. But the words had been spoken, and the tone of the voice had died away, and the fire in

the eyes had burned itself out before the moment of the major's arrival. Mr Thumble was now returning to his

horse, and having enjoyedif he did enjoyhis little triumph about the parish, was becoming unhappy at

the future dangers that awaited him. Perhaps he was the more unhappy because it had been proposed to him

by the authorities at the palace that he should repeatedly ride on the same animal from Barchester to

Hogglestock and back. Mr Crawley was in the act of replying to his lamentations on this subject with his

hand on the latch, when the major arrived'I regret to say, sir that I cannot assist you by supplying any other

'You probably do not remember me, Mr Crawley?' said the major. 'I am Major Grantly.' Mrs Crawley, who

heard these words inside the room, sprang up from her chair, and could hardly resist the temptation to rush

into the passage. She too had barely seen Major Grantly; and now the only bright gleam which appeared on

her horizon depended on his constancy under circumstances which would have justified his inconstancy. But

'I remember you well, sir,' said Mr Crawley. 'I am under no common obligation to you. You are at present

Mr Thumble had caught the name of Grantly, took off his hat, which he had put on his head. He had not been

particular in keeping off his hat before Mr Crawley. But he knew well that Archdeacon Grantly was a big

man in the diocese; and though the Grantlys and the Proudies were opposed to each other, still it might be

well to take off his hat before anyone who had to do with the big ones of the diocese. 'I hope your respected

'Pretty well, I thank you.' The major stood close up against the wall of the passage, so as to allow room for

Mr Thumble to pass out. His business was one on which he could hardly begin to speak until the visitor had

gone. Mr Crawley was standing with the door wide open in his hand. He also was anxious to be rid of Mr

Thumbleand was perhaps not so solicitous as a brother clergyman should have touching the future fate of

'Really, I don't know what to do as to getting upon him again,' said Mr Thumble.

'If you will allow him to progress slowly,' said Mr Crawley, 'he will probably travel with greater safety.'

'I don't know what you call slow, Mr Crawley. I was ever so much over two hours coming here from

'Indeed he did, sir. You never saw such a thing, Major Grantly. Look here.' Then Mr Thumble, turning round,

'It was well that he was not going fast, or you would have come on to your head,' said Grantly.

'It was a mercy,' said Thumble. 'But, sir, as it was, I came to the ground with much violence. It was on

Spigglewick Hill, where the road is covered with loose stones. I see, sir, you have a gig and horse here, with a

servant. Perhaps, as the circumstances are so very peculiar' Then Mr Thumble stopped, and looked up into

the major's face with imploring eyes. But the major had no tenderness for such sufferings. 'I'm sorry to say

that I am going quite the other way,' he said. 'I am returning to Silverbridge.'

Mr Thumble hesitated, and then made a renewed request. 'If you would not mind taking me to Silverbridge, I

could get home from thence by railway; and perhaps you would allow your servant to take the horse to

Major Grantly was for a moment dumbfounded. 'The request is most unreasonable, sir.' said Mr Crawley.

'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 arejust 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 it

appears, the duties also of the parish. I refrain from animadverting upon his lordship's choice.'

'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

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 threenay, 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 muchand 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

'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 right;he is altogether

'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 this we need not trouble Major

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 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 a 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 shook 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, though she had been able to vindicate the general

character of the house while she was left in the corner by herself. 'I wonder whether you would be angry with

me,' continued the major, 'if I told you 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 Greekunless we are to

count the twelve books of Euclid and Wood's Algebra, and sundry smaller exercises of the same

descriptionshe understood, as well as anyone 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

consciencestricken. Here was a rich man, 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 daughterfor 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 a paradise to their child. 'Nil conscire sibi,' said the father to himself,

When he had waited for a moment or two, he began. 'Mrs Crawley,' he said, addressing himself to the mother,

'I do not quite know how far you may be aware that Ithat I have for some time been been acquainted

'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.

'Sir,' said Mr Crawley, 'I am so placed by the untoward circumstances of my life that I can hardly claim to

'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 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 this parish. I am, as it were, an outlaw here, and entitled neither to obedience nor respect from those

'Major Grantly,' said the poor woman, 'no husband or father in the county is more closely obeyed or more

'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 the purpose of connecting yourself at

'I did not mean to insinuate, sir, that there was aught of reticence in your words, so contrived that you might

fall back on 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 Ior, 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 in furtherance of which you have thought it expedient to

'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

'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 a

'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.

'It is the cleanest and the sweetest and fairest hand in Barsetshire,' said the major. Mrs Crawley could not

'There is unfortunately a stain, which is vicarial,' began Mr Crawley, sustaining up to that point his voice with

Roman fortitudewith 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 slownatural,

whereas it had hitherto been affectedhuman, 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!tomorrow, if she'll have me.' Mrs Crawley, who

'It may not be so. As I began by sayingor rather strove to say, for I have been overtaken by weakness, and

cannot speak my mindI cannot claim authority over my child as would another man. How can I exercise

'I could express no wish,' said he. 'But I know my girl, and I am sure that she will not consent to take infamy

'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

'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 heardI may be permitted to add also from what I now know from personal

experiencesuch a marriage would be laden with fair promise and 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. 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 thisand I will not. Nor do I believe that she would do so if I bid

her.' Then he turned his chair round, and sat with his face to the wall, wiping away the tears with a tattered

Mrs Crawley led the major 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 sceneupon 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

Then she paused for a moment, 'I can do nothing,' she said, 'but what he bids me.'

'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 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.'

Conway Dalrymple had hurried out of the room in Mrs Broughton's house in which he had been painting Jael

and Sisera, thinking that it would be better to meet an angry and perhaps tipsy husband on the stairs, than it

would be either to wait for him till he should make his way into his wife's room, or to hide away from him

with the view of escaping altogether from so disagreeable an encounter. He had no fear of the man. He did

not think that there would be any violencenor, as regarded himself, did he much care if there was to be

violence. But he felt that he was bound, as far as it might be possible, to screen the poor woman from the ill

effects of her husband's temper and condition. He was, therefore, prepared to stop Broughton on the stairs,

and to use some force in arresting him on his way, should he find the man to be really intoxicated. But he had

not descended above a stair or two before he was aware that the man below him, whose step had been heard,

'It is you, is it?' said Conway. 'I thought it was Broughton.' then he looked into the man's face and saw that he

was ashy pale. All that appearance of lowbred jauntiness which used to belong to him seemed to have been

washed out of him. His hair had forgotten to curl, his gloves had been thrown aside, and even his trinkets

were out of sight. 'What has happened,' said Conway. 'What is the matter? Something is wrong.' Then it

occurred to him that Musselboro had been sent to the house to tell the wife of the husband's ruin.

'Yes; I have a painting here. For some time past I have been doing a picture of Miss Van Siever. Mrs Van

Siever has been here today.' Conway thought that this information would produce some strong effect on

Clara's proposed husband; but he did not seem to regard the matter of the picture nor the mention of Miss

'Blew his brains out this morning just inside the entrance at Hook Court. The horror of drink was on him, and

he stood just in the pathway and shot himself. Bangles was standing at the top of their vaults and saw him do

it. I don't think Bangles will ever be a man again. Oh lord! I shall never get over it myself. The body was

there when I went in.' Then Musselboro sank back against the wall of the staircase, and stared at Dalrymple

as though he still saw before him the terrible sight of which he had just spoken.

Dalrymple seated himself on the stairs and strove to bring his mind to bear on the tale which he had just

heard. What was he to do, and how was that poor woman upstairs to be informed? 'You came here intending

to tell her,' he said in a whisper. He feared every moment that Mrs Broughton would appear on the stairs, and

learn from a word or two what had happened without any hint to prepare her for the catastrophe.

'I thought you would be here. I knew you were doing the picture. He knew it. He'd a letter to say soone of

'I don't think it was that,' said Musselboro. 'He meant to have had it out with her; but it wasn't that as brought

'Oh, yes; she knew that. Mrs Van Siever had told her. Poor creature! How are we to break this to her?'

'You and she are very thick,' said Musselboro. 'I suppose you'll do it best.' By this time they were in the

drawingroom, and the door was closed. Dalrymple had put his hand on the other man's arm, and had led him

downstairs, out of reach of hearing from the room above. 'You'll tell herwon't you?' said Musselboro. Then

Dalrymple tried to think what loving female friend there was who would break the news to the unfortunate

woman. He knew of the Van Sievers, and he knew of the Demolines, and he almost knew that there was no

other woman within reach whom he was entitled to regard as closely connected with Mrs Broughton. He was

well aware that the anonymous letter of which Musselboro had just spoken had come from Miss Demolines,

and he could not go there for sympathy and assistance. Nor could he apply to Mrs Van Siever after with had

passed this morning. To Clara Van Siever he would have applied, but that it was impossible he should reach

Clara except through her mother. 'I suppose I had better go to her,' he said, after a while. And then he went,

leaving Musselboro in the drawingroom. 'I'm so bad with it,' said Musselboro, 'that I really don't know how

Conway Dalrymple made his way up the stairs with very slow steps, and as he did so he could not but think

seriously of the nature of his friendship with this woman, and could not but condemn himself heartily for the

folly and iniquity of his own conduct. Scores of times he had professed his love to her with halfexpressed

words, intended to mean nothing, as he said to himself when he tried to excuse himself, but enough to turn

her head, even if they did not reach her heart. Now, this woman was a widow, and it came to be his duty to

tell her that she was so. What if she should claim from him now the love which he had so often proffered to

her! It was not that he feared that she would claim anything from him at this momentneither now, nor

tomorrow, nor the next daybut the agony of the present meeting would produce others in which there

would be some tenderness mixed with the agony; and so from one meeting to another the thing would

progress. But in this danger before him, it was not of himself that he was thinking, but of her. How could he

assist her at such a time without doing her more injury than benefit? And, if he did not assist her, who would

do so? He knew her to be heartless; but even heartless people have hearts which can be touched and almost

broken by certain sorrows. Her heart would not be broken by her husband's death, but it would become very

sore if she were utterly neglected. He was now at the door, with his hand on the lock, and was wondering

why she should remain so long within without making herself heard. Then he opened it, and found her seated

in a loungechair, with her back to the door, and he could see that she had a volume of a novel in her hand.

He understood it all. She was pretending to be indifferent to her husband's return. He walked up to her,

thinking that she would recognise his step; but she made no sign of turning towards him. He saw the motion

of her hair over the back of the chair as she affected to make herself luxuriously comfortable. She was

striving to let her husband see that she cared nothing for him, or for his condition, or for his jealousy, if he

were jealousor even of his ruin. 'Mrs Broughton,' he said, when he was close to her. Then she jumped up

quickly, and turned round facing him. 'Where is Dobbs?' she said. 'Where is Dobbs?'

Dalrymple's eye fell on the tattered canvas, and he thought of the doings of the past month. He thought of the

picture of the three Graces, which was hanging in the room below, and he thoroughly wished that he had

never been introduced to the Broughton establishment. How was he to get through his present difficulty? 'No,'

said he, 'Broughton did not come. It was Mr Musselboro whose steps you heard below.'

'What is he here for? What is he doing here? Where is Dobbs? Conway, there is something the matter. Has he

The use of the past tense, unintentional as it had been, told the story to the woman at once. 'He is dead,' she

said. Then he took both her hands in his and looked into her face, without speaking a word. And she gazed at

him with fixed eyes, and rigid mouth, while the quick coming breath just moved the curl of her nostrils. It

occurred to him at that moment that he had never before seen her so wholly unaffected, and had never before

observed that she was so totally deficient in all the elements of real beauty. She was the first to speak again.

Then she dropped her hands and walked away from him to the window and stood there looking out upon

the stuccoed turret of a huge house that stood opposite. As she did so she was employing herself in counting

the windows. Her mind was paralysed by the blow, and she knew not how to make any exertion with it for

any purpose. Everything was changed with herand was changed in such a way that she could make no

guess as to her future mode of life. She was suddenly a widow, a pauper, and utterly desolatewhile the

only person in the whole world that she really liked was standing close to her. But in the midst of it all she

counted the windows of the house opposite. Had it been possible for her she would have put her mind

He let her stand for a few minutes and then joined her at the window. 'My friend,' he said, 'what shall I do for

'Come and sit down and let me talk to you,' he replied. Then he led her to the sofa, and as she seated herself I

'What a pity it was to cut it up,' she said, pointing to the rags of Jael and Sisera.

'Never mind the picture now. Dreadful as it is, you must allow yourself to think of him for a few minutes.'

'Think of what! Oh, God! Yes. Conway, you must tell me what to do. Was everything gone? It isn't about

myself. I don't mind about myself. I wish it was me instead of him. I do. I do.'

'But, Conway, how did it happen? Do you think it is true? That man would say anything to gain his object. Is

'I will never see him. I believe that he has murdered my husband. I do. I feel sure of it. Now I think of it I am

quite sure of it. And he will murder you too;about that girl. He will. I tell you I know the man.' Dalrymple

simply shook his head, smiling sadly. 'Very well! You will see. But, Conway, how do you know that it is

'Then;then' She went no further in her speech; but Dalrymple assented by a slight motion of his head,

and she had been informed sufficiently that her husband had perished by his own hand. 'What am I to do?' she

said. 'Oh, Conway, you must tell me. Was there ever so miserable a woman! Was itpoison?'

He got up and walked quickly across the room and back again to the place where she was sitting. 'Never mind

about that now. You shall know all that in time. Do not ask me any questions about that. If I were you I think

I would go to bed. You will be better there than up, and this shock will make you sleep.'

'No,' she said. 'I will not go to bed. How should I know that that man would not come and kill me? I believe

'I think I had better, for a while. There are things which should be done. Shall I send one of the women for

'There is not one of them that cares for me in the least. Oh, Conway, do not go; not yet. I will not be left alone

in the house with him. You will be very cruel if you go and leave me nowwhen you have so often said that

'I think it will be best,' he said, 'that I should go to Mrs Van Siever. If I can manage it, I will get Clara to

'I do not want her,' said Mrs Broughton. 'She is a heartless cold creature, and I do not want to have her near

me. My poor husband was ruined among them;yes, ruined among them. It has all been done that she may

marry that horrid man and live here in this house. I have known ever so long that he has not been safe among

'You need fear nothing from Clara,' said Dalrymple, with some touch of anger in his voice.

'Of course you will say so. I can understand that very well. And it is natural that you should wish to be with

Then he sat beside her, and took her hand, and endeavoured to speak to her so seriously, that she herself

might become serious, and if it might be possible, in some degree contemplative. He told her how necessary

it was that she should have some woman near her in her trouble, and explained to her that as far as he knew

her female friends, there would be no one who would be so considerate with her as Clara Van Siever. She at

one time mentioned the name of Miss Demolines; but Dalrymple altogether opposed the notion of sending for

that ladyexpressing his opinion that the amiable Madalina had done all in her power to create quarrels

between Mrs Broughton and her husband and between Dobbs Broughton and Mrs Van Siever. And he spoke

his opinion very fully about Miss Demolines. 'And yet you liked her once,' said Mrs Broughton. 'I never liked

her,' said Dalrymple with energy. 'But all that matters nothing now. Of course you can send for her if you

please; but I do not think her trustworthy, and I will not willingly come in contact with her.' Then Mrs

Broughton gave him to understand that of course she must give way, but that in giving way she felt herself to

be submitting to illusage which is the ordinary lot of women, and to which she, among women, had been

specially subjected. She did not exactly say as much, fearing that if she did he would leave her altogether; but

'I will employ myself altogether and only about your affairs, till I see you again.'

'It would be madness. Look here;lie down till Clara comes or till I return. Do not go beyond this room and

your own. If she cannot come this evening I will return. Goodbye now. I will see the servants as I go out,

'Oh, Conway,' she said, clutching hold of him again. 'I know that you despise me.'

'I do not despise you, and I will be as good a friend to you as I can. God bless you.' Then he went, and as he

descended the stairs he could not refrain from telling himself that he did in truth despise her.

His first object was to find Musselboro, and to dismiss that gentleman from the house. For though he himself

did not attribute to Mrs Van Siever's favourite any of those terrible crimes and potentialities for crime with

which Mrs Dobbs Broughton had invested him, still he thought it reasonable that the poor woman upstairs

should not be subjected to the necessity of either seeing him or hearing him. But Musselboro had gone, and

Dalrymple could not learn from the head womanservant whom he saw, whether before going he had told to

anyone in the house the tale of the catastrophe which had happened in the City. Servants are wonderful

actors, looking often as though they knew nothing when they knew everythingas though they understood

nothing, when they understood all. Dalrymple made known all that was necessary, and the discreet upper

servant listened to the tale, with the proper amount of awe and horror and commiseration. 'Shot hisself in the

City;laws! You'll excuse me, sir, but we all know'd as master was coming to no good.' But she promised to

do her best with her mistressand kept her promise. It is seldom that servants are not good in such straits as

From Mrs Broughton's house Dalrymple went directly to Mrs Van Siever's, and learned that Musselboro had

been there about half an hour before, and had then gone off in a cab with Mrs Van Siever. It was now nearly

four o'clock in the afternoon, and no one in the house knew when Mrs Van Siever would be back. Miss Van

Siever was out, and had been out when Mr Musselboro had called, but was expected every minute. Conway

therefore said that he would call again, and on returning found Clara alone. She had not then heard a word of

the fate of Dobbs Broughton. Of course she would go at once to Mrs Broughton, and if necessary stay with

her during the night. She wrote a line at once to her mother, saying where she was, and went across to Mrs

Broughton leaning on Dalrymple's arm. 'Be good to her,' said Conway, as he left her at the door. 'I will,' said

Clara. 'I will be as kind as nature will allow me.' 'And remember,' said Conway, whispering into her ear as he

pressed her hand at leaving her, 'that you are the all the world to me.' It was perhaps not a proper time for an

Clara Van Siever did stay all night with Mrs Broughton. In the course of the evening she received a note from

her mother, in which she was told to come home to breakfast. 'You can go back to her afterwards,' said Mrs

Van Siever; 'and I will see her myself in the course of the day, if she will let me.' The note was written on a

scrap of paper, and had neither beginning nor end; but this was after the manner of Mrs Van Siever, and Clara

was not in the least hurt or surprised. 'My mother will come to see you after breakfast,' said Clara, as she was

'Of course she'll turn me out. I do not mind a bit about thatonly I hope she'll let me have some mourning.'

Then she made Clara promise that she would return as soon as possible, having in Clara's presence overcome

all that feeling of dislike which she had expressed to Conway Dalrymple. Mrs Broughton was generally

affectionate to those who were near her. Had Musselboro forced himself into her presence, she would have

'Mr Musselboro will be here directly,' said Mrs Van Siever, as she was starting for Mrs Broughton's house.

'You had better tell him to come to me up here; or, stopperhaps you had better keep him here till I come

Clara had made the uncourteous proposition to her mother with the express intention of making it understood

that she would have nothing to say to him. 'He can come upstairs if he likes,' said Clara; 'and I will go up to

'If you fight shy of him, miss, you may remember thisthat you will fight shy of me at the same time.'

'You can do as you please. I can't force you, and I shan't try. But I can make your life a burden to youand I

will. What's the matter with the man that he isn't good enough for you? He's as good as any of your own

people ever was. I hate your newfangled airswith pictures painted on the sly, and all the rest of it. I hate

such ways. See what they have brought that wretched man to, and the poor fool his wife. If you go and marry

that painter, some of these days you'll be very much like what she is. Only I doubt whether he has got the

courage enough to blow his brains out.' With these comfortable words, the old woman took herself off,

Mr Musselboro was not long in coming, and, in accordance with Mrs Van Siever's implied directions to her

daughter, was shown up into the drawingroom. Clara gave him her mother's message in a very few words. 'I

was expressly told, sir, to ask you to stop, if it is not inconvenient, as she very much wants to see you.' Mr

Musselboro declared that of course he would stop. He was only too happy to have the opportunity of

remaining in such delightful society. As Clara answered nothing to this, he went on to say that he hoped that

the melancholy occasion of Mrs Van Siever's visit to Mrs Broughton might make a long absence

necessaryhe did not, indeed, care how long it might be. He had recovered now from that paleness, and that

want of gloves and jewellery which had befallen him on the previous day immediately after the sight he had

seen in the City. Clara made no answer to the last speech, but, putting some things together in her

workbasket, prepared to leave the room. 'I hope you are not going to leave me?' he said, in a voice that was

'I am so shocked by what has happened, Mr Musselboro, that I am altogether unfit for conversation. I was

with poor Mrs Broughton last night, and I shall return to her when mamma comes home.'

'It is sad, certainly; but what was there to be expected? If you'd only seen how he used to go on.' To this Clara

made no answer. 'Don't go yet,' said he; 'there is something that I want to say to you. There is, indeed.'

Clara Van Siever was a young person whose presence of mind rarely deserted her. It occurred to her now that

she must undergo on some occasion the nuisance of a direct offer from him, and that she could have no better

opportunity of answering him after her own fashion than the present. Her mother was absent, and the field

was her own. And, moreover, it was a point in her favour that the tragedy which had so lately occurred, and

to which she had just now alluded, would give her a fair excuse for additional severity. At such a moment no

man could, she told herself, be justified in making an offer of his love, and therefore she might rebuke him

with the less remorse. I wonder whether the last words which Conway Dalrymple had spoken to her stung her

conscience as she thought of this! She had now reached the door, and was standing close to it. As Mr

Musselboro did not at once, begin, she encouraged him. 'If you have anything special to tell me, I will hear

'Miss Clara,' he began, rising from his chair, and coming into the middle of the room. 'I think you know what

my wishes are.' Then he put his hand upon his heart. 'And your respected mother is the same way of thinking.

It's that that emboldens me to be so sudden. Not but what my heart has been yours and yours only all along,

before the old lady so much as mentioned it.' Clara would give him no assistance, not even the aid of a

negative, but stood there quite passive, with her hand on the door. 'Since I first had the pleasure of seeing you

I have always said to myself, "Augustus Musselboro, that is the woman for you, if you can only win her." But

there was so much against mewasn't there?' She would not even take advantage of this by assuring him

that there certainly always had been much against him, but allowed him to go on till he should run out all the

length of his tether. 'I mean, of course, in the way of money,' he continued. 'I hadn't much that I could call my

own when your respected mother first allowed me to become acquainted with you. But it's different now; and

I think I may say that I'm all right in that respect. Poor Broughton's going this way will make it a deal

smoother to me; and I may say that I and your mamma will be all in all to each other now about money.' Then

'I mean that there isn't a more devoted fellow in all London than what I am to you.' Then he was about to go

down on one knee, but it occurred to him that it would not be convenient to kneel to a lady who would stand

quite close to the door. 'One and one, if they're put together well, will often make more than two. And so they

shall with us,' said Musselboro, who began to feel that it might be expedient to throw a little spirit into his

'If you have done,' said Clara, 'you may as well hear from me for a minute. And I hope you will have the

'Mamma's wishes have no influence whatsoever with me in such matters as this. Mamma's arrangements with

you are for her own convenience, and I am not party to them. I do not know anything about mamma's money,

and I do not want to know. But under no possible circumstances will I consent to become your wife. Nothing

that mamma could say or do would induce me even to think of it. I hope you will be man enough to take this

'It's no good your Miss Claraing me, sir. What I have said to you may be sure I mean. Goodmorning, sir.'

'By Jove, she is a Tartar,' said Musselboro to himself, when he was alone. 'They're both Tartars, but the

younger is the worse.' Then he began to speculate whether Fortune was not doing the best for him in so

arranging that he might have use of the Tartarmother's money without binding himself to endure for life the

It had been understood that Clara was to wait at home till her mother should return before she again went to

Mrs Broughton. At about eleven Mrs Van Siever came in, and her daughter intercepted her at the

diningroom door before she made her way upstairs to Mr Musselboro. 'How is she, mamma?' said Clara

'That is no reason why she should be an idiot; and she is heartless too. She never cared a bit for himnot a

'He was a man whom it was impossible to care for much. I will go to her now, mamma.'

'Mamma, that is quite out of the question. Quite. I would not marry him to save myself from starving.'

'You do not know what starving is yet, my dear. Tell me the truth at once. Are you engaged to that painter?'

Clara paused a moment before she answered, not hesitating as to the expediency of telling her mother any

truth on the matter in question, but doubting what the truth might really be. Could she say that she was

engaged to Mr Dalrymple, or could she say that she was not? 'If you tell me a lie, miss, I'll have you put out

'I certainly shall not tell you a lie. Mr Dalrymple has asked me to be his wife, and I have made him no

'I order you not to leave this house,' said Mrs Van Siever again and thereupon she stalked out of the

diningroom and went upstairs. Clara had been standing with her bonnet on, ready dressed to go out, and the

mother made no attempt to send the daughter up to her room. That she did not expect to be obeyed in her

order may be inferred from the first words which she spoke to Mr Musselboro. 'She has gone off to that man

'You see, Mrs Van, he had the start of me so much. And then being at the West End, and all that, gives a man

'Bother!' said Mrs Van Siever, as he quick ear caught the sound of the closing halldoor. Clara had stood a

minute or two to consider, and then had resolved that she would disobey her mother. She tried to excuse her

own conduct to her own satisfaction as she went. 'There are some things,' she said, 'which even a daughter

cannot hear from her mother. If she chooses to close the door against me, she must do so.'

She found Mrs Broughton still in bed, and could not but agree with her mother that the woman was both silly

'But I hope she will let me have my own things. A great many of them are altogether my own. I know there's

a law that a woman may have her own things, even though her husband hasdone what poor Dobbs did.

And I think she was hard upon me about the mourning. They never do mind giving credit for such things as

that, and though there is a bill due to Mrs Morell now, she has had a deal of Dobbs's money.' Clara promised

her that she would have mourning to her heart's content. 'I will see to that myself,' she said.

Presently there was a knock at the door, and the discreet headservant beckoned Clara out of the room. 'You

are not going away,' said Mrs Broughton. Clara promised her that she would not go without coming back

again. 'He will be here soon, I suppose, and perhaps you had better see him; though, for the matter of that,

perhaps you had better not, because he is so much cut up about poor Dobbs.' The servant had come to tell

Clara that the 'he' in question was at the present moment waiting for her below stairs.

The first words which passed between Dalrymple and Clara had reference to the widow. He told her what he

had learned in the Citythat Broughton's property had never been great, and that his personal liabilities at

the time of his death were supposed to be small. But he had fallen lately altogether into the hands of

Musselboro, who, though penniless himself in the way of capital, was backed by the money of Mrs Van

Siever. There was not doubt that Broughton had destroyed himself in the manner told by Musselboro, but the

opinion in the City was that he had done so rather through the effects of drink than because of his losses. As

to the widow, Dalrymple thought that Mrs Van Siever, or nominally, perhaps, Musselboro, might be induced

to settle an annuity on her, or she would give up everything quietly. 'Doubt whether your mother is not

responsible for everything that Broughton owed when he diedfor everything, that is, in the way of

business; and if so, Mrs Broughton will certainly have a claim on the estate.' It occurred to Dalrymple once or

twice that he was talking to Clara about Mrs Van Siever as though he and Clara were more closely bound

together than were Clara and her mother; but Clara seemed to take this in good part, and was as solicitous as

Then the discreet headservant knocked and told them that Mrs Broughton was very anxious to see Mr

Dalrymple, but that Miss Van Siever was on no account to go away. She was up, and in her dressinggown,

and had gone into the sittingroom. 'I will come directly,' said Dalrymple, and the discreet headservant

'Clara,' said Conway, 'I do not know when I may have another chance of asking for an answer to my question.

'I don't think much of that; men say those things so often. What you said before was serious, I suppose?'

'It is impossible; but mamma is very obstinate. I have no fortune of my ownnot a shilling. She told me

today that she would turn me out into the street. She forbade me to come here, thinking I should meet you;

but I came, because I had promised Mrs Broughton. I am sure that she will never give me one shilling.'

Dalrymple paused for a moment. It was certainly true that he had regarded Clara Van Siever as an heiress,

and had at first been attracted to her because he thought it expedient to marry an heiress. But there had since

come something beyond that, and there was perhaps less of regret than most men would have felt as he gave

up his golden hopes. He took her into his arms and kissed her, and called her his own. 'Now we understand

'And I shall tell my mother today that I am engaged to youunless she refuses to see me. Go to Mrs

Broughton now. I feel that we are almost cruel to be thinking of ourselves in this house at such a time.' Upon

this Dalrymple went, and Clara Van Siever was left to her reflections. She had never before had a lover. She

had never had even a friend whom she loved and trusted. Her life had been passed at school till she was

nearly twenty, and since then had been vainly endeavouring to accommodate herself into the absolute power

of a man who was nearly a strange to her! But she did love him, as she had never loved anyone else;and

Dalrymple went upstairs for an hour, and Clara did not see him again before he left the house. It was clear to

her, from Mrs Broughton's first words, that Conway had told her what had passed. 'Of course I shall never

'There are some people,' said Mrs Broughton, 'who can do well for their friends, but can never do well for

themselves. I am one of them. I saw at once how great a thing it would be for both of you to bring you two

togetherespecially for you, Clara; and therefore I did it. I may say that I never had it out of my mind for

months past. Poor Dobbs misunderstood what I was doing. God knows how far that may have brought about

'Of course he could not be blind to one thing;nor was I. I mention it now because it is right, but I shall

never, never allude to again. Of course he saw, and I saw, that Conwaywas attached to me. Poor Conway

meant no harm. I was aware of that. But there was the terrible fact. I knew at once that the only cure for him

was a marriage with some girl he could respect. Admiring you as I do, I immediately resolved on bringing

you to together. My dear, I have been successful, and I heartily trust that you may be happier than Maria

Miss Van Siever knew the woman, understood all the facts, and pitying the condition of the wretched

creature, bore all this without a word of rebuke. She scorned to put out her strength against one who was in

Things were gloomy at the palace. It has already been said that for may days after Dr Tempest's visit to

Barchester the intercourse between the bishop and Mrs Proudie had not been of a pleasant nature. He had

become so silent, so sullen, and so solitary in his ways, that even her courage had been almost cowed, and for

a while she had condescended to use gentler methods, with the hope that she might thus bring her lord round

to his usual state of active submission; or perhaps, if we strive to do her full justice, we may say of her that

her effort was made conscientiously, with the idea of inducing him to do his duty with proper activity. For

she was a woman not without a conscience, and by no means indifferent to the real service which her

husband, as bishop of the diocese, was bound to render to the affairs of the Church around her. Of her own

struggles after personal dominion she was herself unconscious; and no doubt they gave her, when recognised

and acknowledged by herself, many stabs to her inner self, of which no single being in the world knew

anything. And now, as after a while she failed in producing any amelioration in the bishop's mood, her

The bishop and his wife were at present alone in the palace. Their married daughter and her husband had left

them, and the unmarried daughter was also away. How far the bishop's mood may have produced this

solitude in the vast house I will not say. Probably Mrs Proudie's state of mind may have prevented her from

having other guests in the place of those who had gone. She felt herself to be almost disgraced in the eyes of

all those around her by her husband's long absence from the common rooms of the house and by his dogged

silence at meals. It was better, she thought, that they two should be alone in the palace.

Her own efforts to bring him back to something like life, to some activity of mind if not body, were made

constantly; and when she failed, as she did fail day after day, she would go slowly to her own room, and lock

her door, and look back in solitude at all the days of her life. She had agonies in these minutes of which no

one near her knew anything. She would seize with her arm the part of the bed near which she would stand,

and hold by it, grasping it, as though she were afraid to fall; and then, when it was at the worst with her, she

would go to her closeta closet that no eyes ever saw unlocked but her ownand fill for herself and

swallow some draught and then she would sit down with the Bible before her, and read it sedulously. She

spent hours every day with her Bible before her, repeating to herself whole chapters, which she knew almost

It cannot be said that she was a bad woman, though she had in her time done an indescribable amount of evil.

She had endeavoured to do good, failing partly by ignorance and partly from the effects of an unbridled,

ambitious temper. And now, even amidst her keenest sufferings, her ambition was by no means dead. She

still longed to rule the diocese by means of her husband, but was made to pause and hesitate by the unwonted

mood that had fallen upon him. Before this, on more than one occasion, and on one very memorable

occasion, he had endeavoured to combat her. He had fought with her, striving to put her down. He had failed,

and given up the hope of any escape fro himself in that direction. On those occasions her courage had never

quailed for a moment. While he openly struggled to be master, she could openly struggle to be mistressand

She had yielded to it for many days, striving to coax him by little softnesses of which she herself had been

ashamed as she practised them. They had served her nothing, and at last she determined that something else

must be done. If only for his sake, to keep some life in him, something else must be done. Were he to

continue as he was now, he must give up the diocese, or, at any rate, declare himself too ill to keep up the

working of it in his own hands. How she hated Mr Crawley for all the sorrow that he had brought upon her

And it was still the affair of Mr Crawley which urged her on to further action. When the bishop received Mr

Crawley's letter he said nothing of it to her; but he handed it over to his chaplain. The chaplain, fearing to act

upon it himself, handed it to Mr Thumble, who he knew to be one of the bishop's commission, and Mr

Thumble, equally fearing responsibility in the present state of affairs at the palace, found himself obliged to

consult Mrs Proudie. Mrs Proudie had no doubt as to what should be done. The man had abdicated his living,

and of course some provision must be made for the services. She would again make an attempt upon her

husband, and therefore she went into his room holding Mr Crawley's letter in her hand.

'I don't know,' said he. He did not even look at her as he spoke. He had not turned his eyes upon her since she

'But, bishop, it is a letter that requires to be acted upon at once. We cannot doubt that the man is doing right at

last. He is submitting himself where his submission is due; but his submission will be of no avail unless you

take some action upon his letter. Do you not think that Mr Thumble had better go over?'

'No, I don't. I think Mr Thumble had better stay where he is,' said the irritated bishop.

'But, bishop, that is nonsense,' said Mrs Proudie, adding something of severity to the tone of her voice.

'No, it isn't nonsense,' said he. Still he did not look at her, nor had he done so for a moment since she had

entered the room. Mrs Proudie could not bear this, and her anger became stronger within her breast, she told

herself that she would be wrong to bear it. She had tried what gentleness would do, and she had failed. It was

now imperatively necessary that she should resort to sterner measures. She must make him understand that he

This was very bad;almost anything would be better than this. He was sitting now over the fire, with his

elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. She had gone round the room so as to face him, and

was now standing almost over him, but still she could not see his countenance. 'This will not do at all,' she

'That might be all very well if you were in a position in which you owed no service to anyone; or, rather, it

would not be well then, but the evil would not be so manifest. You cannot do your duty in the diocese if you

continue to sit there doing nothing, with your head upon your hands. Why do you not rally, and get to your

'No, bishop. I will not go away and leave you. You have brought yourself into such a condition that it is my

duty as your wife to stay by you; and if you neglect your duty, I will not neglect mine.'

'It is the truth.' And now he got up and looked at her. For a moment he stood upon his legs, and then sat down

again with his face turned towards her. 'It is the truth. You have brought on me such disgrace that I cannot

hold up my head. You have ruined me. I wish I were dead; and it is all through you that I am driven to wish

Of all that she had suffered in her life this was the worst. She clasped both her hands to her side as she

listened to him, and for a minute or two she made no reply. When he ceased from speaking he again put his

elbows in his knees and again buried his face in his hands. What had she better do, or how was it expedient

that she should treat him? At this crisis the whole thing was so important to her that she would have

postponed her own ambition and would have curbed her temper had she thought that by doing so she might in

any degree have benefited him. But it seemed to her that she could not rouse him by conciliation. Neither

could she leave him as he was. Something must be done. 'Bishop,' she said, 'the words that you speak are very

'I will not hear that from you. I will not indeed. I have endeavoured to do my duty by you, and I do not

deserve it. I am endeavouring to do my duty now, and you must know that it would ill become me to remain

quiescent while you are in such a state. The world around you is observing you, and knows that you are not

doing your work. All I want of you is that you should arouse yourself, and go to your work.'

'I suppose, then, you wish that I were dead?' said Mrs Proudie. To this he made no reply, nor did he stir

himself. How could flesh and blood bear thisfemale flesh and bloodMrs Proudie's flesh and blood?

Now, at last, her temper once more got the better of her judgment, probably much to her immediate

satisfaction, and she spoke out. 'I'll tell you what it is, my lord, if you are imbecile, I must be active. It is very

'I must do so, or else must obtain a medical certificate as to your incapacity, and beg that some neighbouring

bishop may administer the diocese. Things shall not go on as they are now. I, at any rate, will do my duty. I

shall tell Mr Thumble that he must go over to Hogglestock, and arrange for the duties of the parish.'

'I desire that you will do no such thing,' said the bishop, now again looking up at her.

He did not even yet suppose that she would go about his this work at once. The condition of his mind was in

truth bad, and was becoming worse, probably, from day to day; but still he did make his calculations about

things, and now reflected that it would be sufficient if he spoke to his chaplain tomorrow about Mr Crawley's

letter. Since the terrible scene that Dr Tempest had witnessed, he had never been able to make up his mind

that some great step was necessary. There were moments in which he thought that he would resign his

bishopric. For such resignation, without acknowledged incompetence on the score of infirmity, the precedents

were very few; but even if there were no precedents, it would be better to do that then to remain where he

was. Of course there would be disgrace. But then it would be disgrace from which he could hide himself.

Now there was equal disgrace; and he could not hide himself. And then such a measure as that would bring

punishment where punishment was due. It would bring his wife to the groundher who had brought him to

the ground. The suffering should not be all his own. When she found that her income, and her palace, and her

position were all gone, then perhaps she might repent the evil that she had done him. Now, when he was left

alone, his mind went back to this, and he did not think of taking immediate measuresmeasures on that very

But Mrs Proudie did take immediate steps. Mr Thumble was at this moment in the palace waiting for

instructions. It was he who had brought Mr Crawley's letter to Mrs Proudie, and she now returned to him with

that letter in her hand. The reader will know what was the result. Mr Thumble was sent off to Hogglestock at

once on the bishop's old cob, andas will be remembered, fell into trouble on the road. Late in the

afternoon, he entered the palace yard having led the cob by the bridle the whole way home from Hogglestock.

Some hour or two before Mr Thumble's return Mrs Proudie returned to her husband, thinking it better to let

him know what she had done. She resolved to be very firm with him, but at the same time she determined not

to use harsh language if it could be avoided. 'My dear,' she said, 'I have arranged with Mr Thumble.' She

found him on this occasion sitting at his desk with papers before him, with a pen in his hand; and she could

see at a glance that nothing had been written on the paper. What would she have thought had she known that

when he placed the sheet before him he was proposing to consult the archbishop as to the propriety of his

resignation! He had not, however, progressed so far as to write even the date of his letter.

'I have arranged with Mr Thumble as to going out to Hogglestock,' she said firmly. 'Indeed he has gone

already.' Then the bishop jumped up from his seat, and rang the bell with violence. 'What are you going to

'I am going to depart from here,' he said. 'I will not stay here to be the mark of scorn for all men's fingers. I

'I can try, at any rate,' said he. Then the servant entered. 'John,' said he, addressing the man, 'let Mr Thumble

know the moment he returns to the palace I wish to see him here. Perhaps he may not come to the palace. In

Mrs Proudie allowed the man to go before she addressed her husband again. 'What do you mean to say to Mr

She came up to him and put her hand upon his shoulder, and spoke to him very gently. 'Tom,' she said, 'is that

'Yes, it is. You have driven me to it. Why have you taken upon yourself to send that man to Hogglestock?'

'Because it was right to do so. I came to you for instructions, and you would give none.'

'I should have given what instructions I pleased in proper time. Thumble shall not go to Hogglestock next

'Never mind. Nobody. It does not matter to you. If you will leave me now I shall be obliged to you. There

Mrs Proudie stood for a while thinking what she would say; but she left the room without uttering another

word. As she looked at him a hundred different thoughts came into her mind. She had loved him dearly, and

she loved him still; but she knew nowat this moment felt absolutely surethat by him she was hated! In

spite of all her roughness and temper, Mrs Proudie was in this like other womenthat she would fain have

been loved had it been possible. She had always meant to serve him. She was conscious of that; conscious

also in a way that, although she had been industrious, although she had been faithful, although she was

clever, yet she had failed. At the bottom of her heart she knew that she had been a bad wife. And yet she had

meant to be a pattern wife! She had meant to be a good Christian; but she had so exercised her Christianity

that not a soul in the world loved her, or would endure her presence if it could be avoided! She had sufficient

insight to the minds and feelings of those around her to be aware of this. And now her husband had told her

that her tyranny to him was so overbearing that he must throw up his great position, and retire to an obscurity

that would be exceptionally disgraceful to them both, because he could no longer endure the public disgrace

which her conduct brought upon him in his high place before the world! Her heart was too full for speech;

She was preparing to go up to her chamber, with her hand on the banisters and with her foot upon the stairs,

when she saw the servant who had answered the bishop's bell. 'John,' she said, 'when Mr Thumble comes to

'Yes, ma'am,' said John, who well understood the nature of those quarrels between his master and his

mistress. But the commands of the mistress were still paramount among the servants, and John proceeded on

his mission with the view of accomplishing Mrs Proudie's behests. Then Mrs Proudie went upstairs to her

Mr Thumble returned to Barchester that day, leading the brokendown cob; and a dreadful walk he had. He

was not good at walking, and before he came near Barchester had come to entertain a violent hatred for the

beast that he was leading. The leading of a horse that is tired, or in pain, or even stiff in his limbs, is not

pleasant work. The brute will not accommodate his paces to the man, and will contrive to make his head very

heavy on the bridle. And he will not walk on the part of the road which the man intends for him, but will lean

against the man, and will make himself altogether disagreeable. It may be understood, therefore, that Mr

Thumble was not in a good humour when he entered the palace yard. Nor was altogether quiet in his mind as

to the injury which he had done to the animal. 'It was the brute's fault,' said Mr Thumble. 'It comes generally

of not knowing how to ride 'em,' said the groom. For Mr Thumble, though he often had a horse out of the

episcopal stables, was not ready with his shillings to the man who waited upon him with the steed.

He had not, however, come to any satisfactory understanding respecting the broken knees when the footman

from the palace told him that he was wanted. It was in vain that Mr Thumble pleaded that he was nearly dead

with fatigue, that he had walked all the way from Hogglestock and must go home to change his clothes. John

was peremptory with him, insisting that he must wait first upon Mrs Proudie and then wait upon the bishop.

Mr Thumble might perhaps have turned a deaf ear to the latter command, but the former was one which he

felt himself bound to obey. So he entered the palace, rather cross, very much soiled as to his outer man; and

in this condition went up a certain small staircase which was familiar to him, to a small parlour which

adjoined Mrs Proudie's room, and there awaited the arrival of the lady. That he should be required to wait

some quarter of an hour was not surprising to him; but when half an hour was gone, and he remembered

himself of his own wife at home, and of the dinner which he had not yet eaten, he ventured to ring the bell.

Mrs Proudie's own maid, Mrs Draper by name, came to him and said that she had knocked twice at Mrs

Proudie's door and would knock again. Two minutes after that she returned, running into the room with her

arms extended, and exclaiming, 'Oh heavens, sir; mistress is dead!' Mr Thumble, hardly knowing what he was

about, followed the woman into the bedroom, and there he found himself standing awestruck before the

The body was still resting on its legs, leaning against the end of the side of the bed, while one of the arms was

close clasped round the bedpost. The mouth was rigidly close, but the eyes were open as thought staring at

him. Nevertheless there could be no doubt from the first glance that the woman was dead. He went up close

to it, but did not dare to touch it. There was no one there as yet but he and Mrs Draper;no one else knew

'We suspected it, sir, though nobody knew it. She was very shy of talking about herself.'

'We must send for the doctor at once,' said Mr Thumble. 'We had better touch nothing till he is here.' Then

In ten minutes everybody in the house knew it except the bishop; and in twenty minutes the nearest

apothecary with his assistant were in the room, and the body had been properly laid upon the bed. Even then

the husband had not been tolddid not know either his relief or his loss. It was now past seven, which was

the usual hour for dinner at the palace, and it was probable that he would come out of his room among the

servants, if he were not summoned. When it was proposed to Mr Thumble that he should go in and tell him,

he positively declined, saying that the sight which he had just seen and the exertions of the day together, had

so unnerved him, that he had not physical strength for the task. The apothecary, who had been summoned in a

hurry, had escaped, probably being equally unwilling to be the bearer of such a communication. The duty

therefore fell to Mrs Draper, and under the pressing instance of the other servants she descended to her

master's room. Had it not been that the hour of dinner had come, so that the bishop could not have been left

She went very slowly along the passage, and was just going to pause ere she reached the room when the door

was opened and the bishop stood close before her. It was easy to be seen that he was cross. His hands and

face were unwashed and his face was haggard. In these days he would not even go through the ceremony of

dressing himself before dinner. 'Mrs Draper,' he said, 'why don't they tell me that dinner is ready? Are they

going to give me any dinner?' She stood a moment without answering him, while the tears streamed down her

'Oh laws!' said Mrs Draperand she put out her hands to support him if such support should be necessary.

'Oh, my lordbear it like a Christian. Mistress isn't no more.' He leaned back against the doorpost and she

took hold of him by the arms. 'It was the heart, my lord. Dr Filgrave hisself has not been yet; but that's what it

was.' The bishop did not say a word, but walked back to his chair before the fire.

The bishop when he had heard of the tidings of his wife's death walked back to his seat over the fire, and Mrs

Draper, the housekeeper came and stood over him without speaking. Thus she stood for ten minutes looking

down at him and listening. But there was no sound; not a word, nor a moan, nor a sob. It was as though he

also were dead, but that a slight irregular movement of his fingers on the top of his bald head, told her that his

mind and body were still active. 'My lord,' she said at last, 'would you wish to see the doctor when he comes?'

She spoke very low and he did not answer her. Then, after another minute of silence, she asked the same

'Dr Filgrave. We sent for him. Perhaps he is here now. Shall I go and see, my lord?' Mrs Draper found that

her position there was weary and she wished to escape. Anything on his behalf requiring trouble or work she

would have done willingly; but she could not stand there for ever, watching the motion of his fingers.

'I suppose I must see him,' said the bishop. Mrs Draper took this as an order for her departure, and crept

silently out of the room, closing the door behind her with the long protracted elaborate click which is always

produced by an attempt at silence on such occasions. He did not care for noise or for silence. Had she

slammed the door he would not have regarded it. A wonderful silence had come upon him which for the time

He was free now. Even in his miseryfor he was very miserable he could not refrain from telling himself

that. No once could now press uncalledfor into his study, contradict him in the presence of those before

whom he was bound to be authoritative, and rob him of all his dignity. There was no one else of whom he

was afraid. She had at least kept him out of the hands of other tyrants. He was now his own master, and there

was the feelingI may not call it of relief, for as yet there was more of pain in it than of satisfactiona

feeling as though he had escaped from an old trouble at a terrible cost of which he could not as yet calculate

the amount. He knew that he might now give up all idea of writing to the archbishop.

She had in some ways, and at certain periods of his life, been very good to him. She had kept his money for

him and made things go straight, when they had been poor. His interests had always been her interests.

Without her he would never have been a bishop. So, at least, he told himself now, and so told himself

probably with truth. She had been very careful of his children. She had never been idle. She had never been

fond of pleasure. She had neglected no acknowledged duty. He did not doubt that she was now on her way to

heaven. He took his hands from his head, and clasping them together, said a little prayer. It may be doubted

whether he quite knew for what he was praying. The idea of giving up her soul, now that she was dead,

would have scandalised him. He certainly was not praying for his own soul. I think that he was praying that

But she was deadand, as it were, in a moment! He had not stirred out of that room since she had been there

with him. Then there had been angry words between themperhaps more determined enmity on his part

than ever had existed; and they had parted for the last time with bitter animosity. But he told himself that he

had certainly been right in what he had done then. He thought he had been right then. And so his mind went

back to the Crawley and Thumble question, and he tried to alleviate the misery which the last interview with

his wife now created by assuring himself that he at least been justified in what he had done.

But yet his thoughts were very tender to her. Nothing reopens the springs of love so fully as absence, and no

absence so thoroughly as that which must needs be endless. We want that which we have not; and especially

that which we never can have. She had told him in the very last moments of her presence with him that he

was wishing she were dead, and he had made no reply. At the moment he had felt, with savage anger, that

such was his wish. Her words had now come to pass, and he was a widowerand he assured himself that he

Yes, he was a widower, and he might do as he pleased. The tyrant was gone, and he was free. The tyrant was

gone, and the tyranny had doubtless been very oppressive. Who had suffered as he had done? But in thus

being left without his tyrant he was wretchedly desolate. Might it not be that the tyranny had been good for

him?that the Lord had known best what wife was fit for him? Then he thought of a story which he had

readand had well marked as he was readingof some man who had been terribly afflicted by his wife,

whose wife had starved him and beaten him and reviled him; and yet this man had been able to thank God for

having mortified him in the flesh. Might it not be that the mortification which he himself had doubtless

suffered in his flesh had been intended for his welfare, and had been very good for him? But if this were so, it

might be that the mortification was now removed because the Lord knew that his servant had been

sufficiently mortified. He had not been starved or beaten, but the mortification had been certainly severe.

Then there came these wordsinto his mind, not into his mouth'The Lord sent the thorn, and the Lord has

taken it away. Blessed be the Lord.' After that he was very angry with himself, and tried to pray that he might

be forgiven. While he was so striving there came a low knock at the door, and Mrs Draper again entered the

'Dr Filgrave, my lord, was not at home,' said Mrs Draper; 'but he will be sent the moment when he arrives.'

'But, my lord, will you not come out to dinner? A little soup, or a morsel of something to eat, and a glass of

wine, will enable your lordship to bear it better.' He allowed Mrs Draper to persuade him, and followed her

into the diningroom. 'Do not go, Mrs Draper,' he said; 'I would rather that you should stay with me.' So Mrs

Draper stayed with him, and administered to his wants. He was desirous of being seen by as few eyes as

He saw Dr Filgrave twice, both before and after the doctor had been upstairs. There was no doubt, Dr

Filgrave said, that it was as Mrs Draper had surmised. The poor lady was suffering, and had for years been

suffering, from heartcomplaint. To her husband she had never said a word on the subject. To Mrs Draper a

word had been said now and againa word when some moment of fear would come, when some sharp

stroke of agony would tell of danger. But Mrs Draper had kept the secret of her mistress, and none of the

family had known that there was aught to be feared. Dr Filgrave, indeed, did tell the bishop that he had

dreaded all along exactly that which had happened. He had said the same to Mr Rerechild, the surgeon, when

they two had had a consultation at the palace on the occasion of a somewhat alarming birth of a grandchild.

But he mixed up this information with so much medical Latin, and was so pompous over it, and the bishop

was so anxious to be rid of him, that his words did not have much effect. What did it all matter? The thorn

was gone, and the wife was dead, and the widower must balance his gain and the loss as best he might.

He slept well but when he woke in the morning the dreariness of his loneliness was very strong on him. He

must do something, and must see somebody, but he felt that he did not know how to bear himself in his new

position. He must send of course for his chaplain, and tell his chaplain to open all letters and to answer them

for a week. Then he remembered how many of his letters in days of yore had been opened and answered by

the helpmate, who had just gone from him. Since Dr Tempest's visit he had insisted that the palace letterbag

should always be brought in the first instance to himand this had been done, greatly to the annoyance of

his wife. In order that it might be done the bishop had been up every morning an hour before the usual time;

and everybody in the household had known why it was so. He thought of this now as the bag was brought to

him on the first morning of his freedom. He could have it where he pleased noweither in his bedroom or

left for him untouched on the breakfasttable till he should go to it. 'Blessed be the name of the Lord,' he said

as he thought of all this; but he did not stop to analyse what he was saying. On this morning he would not

enjoy his liberty, but desired that the letterbag might be taken to Mr Snapper, the chaplain.

The news of Mrs Proudie's death had spread all over Barchester on the evening of its occurrence, and had

been received with that feeling of distant awe which is always accompanied by some degree of pleasurable

sensation. There was no one in Barchester to lament a mother, or a sister, or a friend who was really loved.

There were those, doubtless, who regretted the woman's deathand even some who regretted it without any

feeling of personal damage done to themselves. There had come to be around Mrs Proudie a party who

thought as she thought on church matters, and such people had lost their head, and thereby their strength. And

she had been staunch to her own party, preferring bad tea from a lowchurch grocer, to good tea from a

grocer who went to the ritualistic church or to no church at all. And it is due to her to say that she did not

forget those who were true to herlooking after them mindfully where looking after might be profitable, and

fighting their battles where fighting might be more serviceable. I do not think that the appetite for breakfast of

any man or woman in Barchester was disturbed by the news of Mrs Proudie's death, but there were some who

Tidings of the catastrophe reached Hiram's Hospital on the evening of its occurrenceHiram's Hospital,

where dwelt Mr and Mrs Quiverful with all their children. Now Mrs Quiverful owed a debt of gratitude to

Mrs Proudie, having been placed in her present comfortable home by that lady's patronage. Mrs Quiverful

perhaps understood the character of the deceased woman, and expressed her opinion respecting it, as

graphically did anyone in Barchester. There was the natural surprise felt at the Warden's Lodge in the

Hospital when the tidings were first received there, and the Quiverful family was at first too full of dismay,

regrets, and surmises to be able to give themselves impartially to criticism. But on the following morning,

conversation at the breakfasttable naturally referring to the great loss which the bishop had sustained, Mrs

Quiverful thus pronounced her opinion of her friend's character: 'You'll find that he'll feel it, Q.,' she said to

her husband, in answer to some sarcastic remark made by him as to the removal of the thorn. 'He'll feel it,

'I daresay he'll feel it at first,' said Quiverful; 'but I think he'll be more comfortable than he has been.'

'Of course he'll feel it, and go on feeling it till he dies, if he's the man I take him to be. You're not to think that

there has been no love because there used to be some words, that he'll find himself the happier he can do

more things as he pleases. She was a great help to him, and he must have known that she was, in spite of the

sharpness of her tongue. No doubt her tongue was sharp. No doubt she was upsetting. And she could make

herself a fool too in her struggles to have everything her own way. But, Q., there were worse women than

Mrs Proudie. She was never one of your idle ones, and I'm quite sure that no man or woman ever heard her

'All the same, she gave him a terribly bad life of it, if all is true that we hear.'

'There are men who must have what you call a terribly bad life of it, whatever way it goes with them. The

bishop is weak, and he wants somebody near to him to be strong. She was strongperhaps too strong; but he

had his advantage of it. After all I don't know that his life has been so terribly bad. I daresay he's had

everything very comfortable about him. And a man ought to be grateful for that, though very few men ever

Mr Quiverful's predecessor at the Hospital, old Mr Harding, whose halcyon days in Barchester had been

passed before the coming of the Proudies, was in bed playing cat'scradle with Posy seated on the

counterpane, when tidings of Mrs Proudie's death were brought to him by Mrs Baxter. 'Oh, sir,' said Mrs

Baxter, seating herself on a chair by the bedside. Mr Harding liked Mrs Baxter to sit down, because he was

almost sure on such occasions to have the advantage of a prolonged conversation.

'Is anything the matter?' And the old man attempted to raise himself in his bed.

'No, my dear; and there isn't nothing to frighten him. There isn't indeed, Mr Harding. They're all well at

Plumstead, and when I heard from the missus at Venice, everything was going on well.'

'God forgive all her sinsMrs Proudie ain't no more.' Now there had been a terrible feud between the palace

and the deanery for years, in carrying on which the persons of the opposed households were wont to express

themselves with eager animosity. Mrs Baxter and Mrs Draper never dared speak to each other. The two

coachmen each longed for an opportunity to take the other before the magistrate for some breach of the law

of the road in driving. The footmen abused each other, and the grooms occasionally fought. The masters and

mistresses contented themselves with simple hatred. Therefore it was not surprising that Mrs Baxter in

'Indeed, she is, Mr Harding,' said Mrs Baxter, putting both her hands together piously. 'We're just as grass,

ain't we, sir! An dust and clay and flowers of the field?' Whether Mrs Proudie had most partaken of the

'Mrs Proudie dead!' with a solemnity that was all her own. 'Then she won't scold the poor bishop any more.'

'No, my dear; she won't scold anybody any more; and it will be a blessing for some, I must say. Everybody is

always so considerate in this house, Miss Posy, that we none of us know nothing about what that is.'

'Dead!' said Mr Harding again. 'I think, if you please, Mrs Baxter, you shall leave me for little time, and take

Miss Posy with you.' He had been in the city of Barchester some fifty years, and here was one who might

have been his daughter, who had come there scarcely ten years since, and who had now gone before him! He

had never loved Mrs Proudie. Perhaps he had come as near to disliking Mrs Proudie as he had ever come to

disliking any person. Mrs Proudie had wounded him in every part that was most sensitive. It would be long to

tell, nor need it be told now, how she had ridiculed his cathedral work, how she had made nothing of him,

how she had despised him, always manifesting her contempt plainly. He had been even driven to rebuke her,

and it had perhaps been the only personal rebuke which he had ever uttered in Barchester. But now she was

gone; and he thought of her simply as an active pious woman, who had been taken away from her word

before her time. And for the bishop, no idea ever entered Mr Harding's mind as to the removal of a thorn. The

man had lost his life's companion at that time of life when such a companion is most needed; and Mr Harding

The news went out to Plumstead Episcopi by the postman, and happened to reach the archdeacon as he was

talking to his rector at the little gate leading into the churchyard. 'Mrs Proudie is dead!' he almost shouted, as

'It be so for zartain, yer reverence,' said the postman, who was proud of his news.

'Heavens!' ejaculated the archdeacon, and then hurried in to his wife. 'My dear,' he saidand as he spoke he

could hardly deliver himself of the words, so eager was he to speak them'who do you think is dead?

Gracious heavens! Mrs Proudie is dead!' Mrs Grantly dropped from her hand the teaspoonful of tea that was

just going into the pot, and repeated her husband's last words. 'Mrs Proudie dead?' There was a pause, during

which they looked into each other's faces. 'My dear, I don't believe it,' said Mrs Grantly.

But she did believe it very shortly. There were no prayers at Plumstead rectory that morning. The archdeacon

immediately went out into the village, and soon obtained sufficient evidence of the truth of that which the

postman had told him. Then he rushed back to his wife. 'It's true,' he said. 'It's quite true. She's dead. There's

no doubt about that. She's dead. It was last night about seven. That was when they found her, at least, and she

'Heartcomplaint. She was standing up, taking hold of the bedstead, and so they found her.' Then there was a

pause, during which the archdeacon sat down to his breakfast. 'I wonder how he felt when he heard it?'

'I've no doubt he was shocked. Any man would be shocked. But when you come to think of it, what a relief!'

'How am I to speak of it in any other way?' said the archdeacon. 'Of course I shouldn't go and say it out in the

'I don't think you ought to say it anywhere,' said Mrs Grantly. 'The poor man no doubt feels about his wife in

'And of any other poor man has got such a wife as she was, you may be quite sure that he would be glad to

get rid of her. I don't say that he wished her to die, or that he would have done anything to contrive her

'But it stands to reason that her going will be a great relief to him. What has she done for him? She has made

him contemptible to everybody in the diocese by her interference, and his life has been a burden to him

'The proverb of De mortuis is founded on humbug. Humbug out of doors is necessary. It would not do for

you and me to go into the High Street just now and say what we think about Mrs Proudie; but I don't suppose

that kind of thing need to be kept up in here so uncomfortable that I cannot believe that anyone will regret

I do not think that Mrs Grantly's opinion differed much from that expressed by her husband, or that she was,

in truth, the least offended by the archdeacon's plain speech. But it must be remembered that there was

probably no house in the diocese in which Mrs Proudie had been so thoroughly hated as she had been at the

Plumstead rectory. There had been hatred in the deanery; but the hatred at the deanery had been mild in

comparison with the hatred at Plumstead. The archdeacon was a sound friend; but he was also a sound

enemy. From the very arrival of the Proudies at Barchester, Mrs Proudie had thrown down her gauntlet to

him, and he had not been slow in picking it up. The war had been internecine, and each had given the other

terrible wounds. It had been understood that there should be no quarter, and there had been none. His enemy

was now dead, and the archdeacon could not bring himself to adopt before his wife the nambypamby

everyday decency of speaking well of one of whom he had ever thought ill, or expressing regret when no

regret could be felt. 'May all her sins be forgiven her,' said Mrs Grantly. 'Amen,' said the archdeacon. There

was something in the tone of his Amen which thoroughly implied that it was uttered only on the

understanding that her departure from the existing world was to be regarded as an unmitigated good, and that

When Lady Lufton heard the tidings, she was not so bold in speaking of it as was her friend the archdeacon.

'Mrs Proudie dead!,' she said to her daughterinlaw. This was some hours after the news had reached the

house, and when the fact of the poor lady's death had been fully recognised. 'What will he do without her?'

'But, my dear, he is not the same as other men. He is not at all like other men. No doubt she was a virago, a

woman who could not control her temper for a moment! No doubt she had led him a terrible life! I have often

pitied him with all my heart. But, nevertheless, she was useful to him. I suppose she was useful to him. I can

hardly believe that Mrs Proudie is dead. Had he gone, it would have seemed so much more natural. Poor

woman. I daresay she had her good points.' The reader will be pleased to remember that the Luftons had ever

The news made its way even to Hogglestock on the same day. Mrs Crawley, when she heard it, went out after

her husband, who was in the school. 'Dead!' he said in answer to her whisper. 'Do you tell me that the woman

is dead?' Then Mrs Crawley explained that the tidings were credible. 'May God forgive her all her sins,' said

Mrs Crawley. 'She was a violent woman, certainly, and I think that she misunderstood her duties; but I do not

say that she was a bad woman. I am inclined to think that she was earnest in her endeavours to do good.' It

never occurred to Mr Crawley that he and his affair, had, in truth, been the cause of her death.

It was thus that she was spoken of for a few days; and the men and women ceased to speak much of her, and

began to talk of the bishop instead. A month had not passed before it was surmised that a man so long

accustomed to the comforts of married life would marry again; and even then one lady connected with

lowchurch clergymen in and around the city was named as a probable successor to the great lady who was

gone. For myself I am inclined to think that the bishop will for the future be content to lean upon his

The monument that was put up to our friend's memory in one of the aisles of the choir of the cathedral was

supposed to be designed and executed in good taste. There was a broken column, and on the column simply

the words 'My beloved wife!' Then there was a slab by the column, bearing Mrs Proudie's name, with the date

Dr Tempest, when he heard the news, sent immediately to Mr Robarts, begging him to come over to

Silverbridge. But this message was not occasioned solely by the death of Mrs Proudie. Dr Tempest had also

heard that Mr Crawley had submitted himself to the bishop, that instant advantageand, as Dr Tempest

thought,unfair advantagehad been taken of Mr Crawley's submission, and that the pernicious Mr

Thumble had been at once sent over to Hogglestock. Had these palace doings with reference to Mr Crawley

been unaccompanied by the catastrophe which had happened, the doctor, much as he might have regretted

them, would probably have felt that there was nothing to be done. He could not in such case have prevented

Mr Thumble's journey to Hogglestock on the next Sunday, and certainly he could not have softened the heart

of the presiding genius at the palace. But things were very different now. The presiding genius was gone.

Everybody at the palace would be for a while weak and vacillating. Thumble would be then thoroughly

cowed; and it might at any rate be possible to make some movement in Mr Crawley's favour. Dr Tempest,

'I'm giving you a great deal of trouble, Robarts,' said the doctor; 'but then you are so much younger than I am,

and I've an idea that you would do more for this poor man than anyone else in the diocese.' Mr Robarts of

course declared that he did not begrudge his trouble, and that he would do anything in his power for the poor

man. 'I think that you should see him again, and that you should then see Thumble also. I don't know whether

'Very likely. There are men who are deaf as adders to courtesy, but who are compelled to obedience at once

by illusage. Very likely Thumble is one of them; but of that you will be the best judge yourself. I would see

'Then I should go without his consent, and I would see Thumble and the bishop's chaplain Snapper. I think

you might manage just at this moment, when they will all be abashed and perplexed by this woman's death, to

arrange that simply nothing shall be done. The great thing will be that Crawley should go on with the duty till

the assizes. If it should happen that he goes into Barchester and is acquitted, and comes back again, the whole

thing will be over, and there will be no further interference in the parish. If I were you, I think I would try it.'

Mr Robarts said that he would try it. 'I daresay Mr Crawley will be a little stiffnecked with you.'

'But I can hardly think that he will throw away the only means he has of supporting his wife and children,

when he finds that there can be no occasion for his doing so. I do not suppose that any person wishes him to

Mr Crawley had been almost in good spirits since the last visit which Mr Thumble had made him. It seemed

as though the loss of everything in the world was in some way satisfactory to him. He had now given up his

living by his own doing, and had after a fashion acknowledged his guilt by this act. He had proclaimed to all

around him that he did not think himself to be any longer fit to perform the sacred functions of his office. He

spoke of his trial as though a verdict against him must be the result. He knew that in going into prison he

would leave his wife and children dependent on the charity of their friendson charity which they must

condescend to accept, though he could not condescend to ask it. And yet he was able to carry himself now

with a greater show of fortitude than had been within his power when the extent of his calamity was more

doubtful. I must not ask the reader to suppose that he was cheerful. To have been cheerful under such

circumstances would have been inhuman. But he carried his head on high, and walked firmly, and gave his

orders with a clear voice. His wife, who was necessarily more despondent than ever, wondered at himbut

wondered in silence. It certainly seemed as though the very extremity of illfortune was good for him. And

he was very diligent with his school, passing the greater part of the morning with his children. Mr Thumble

had told him that he would come on Sunday, and that he would then take charge of the parish. Up to the

coming of Mr Thumble he would do everything in the parish that could be done by a clergyman with a clear

spirit and a free heart. Mr Thumble should not find that spiritual weeds had grown rank in the parish because

Mrs Proudie had died on the Tuesdaythat having been the day of Mr Thumble's visit to Hogglestockand

Mr Robarts had gone over to Silverbridge, in answer to Dr Tempest's invitation, on the Thursday. He had not,

therefore, the command of much time, it being the express object to prevent the appearance of Mr Thumble at

Hogglestock on the next Sunday. He had gone to Silverbridge by railway, and had, therefore, been obliged to

postpone his visit to Mr Crawley till the next day; but early on the Friday morning he rode over to

Hogglestock. That he did not arrive there with a brokenkneed horse, the reader may be quite sure. In all

matters of that sort, Mr Robarts was ever above reproach. He rode a good horse, and drove a neat gig, and

was always welldressed. On this account Mr Crawley, though he really liked Mr Robarts, and was thankful

to him for many kindnesses, could never bear his presence with perfect equanimity. Robarts was no scholar,

was not a great preacher, had obtained no celebrity as a churchmanhad, in fact, done nothing to merit great

reward; and yet everything had been given to him with an abundant hand. Within the last twelvemonth his

wife had inherited Mr Crawley did not care to know how many thousand pounds. And yet Mr Robarts had

won all that he possessed by being a clergyman. Was it possible that Mr Crawley should regard such a man

with equanimity? Robarts rode over with a groom behind himreally taking the groom because he knew that

Mr Crawley would have no one to hold his horse for himand the groom was the source of great offence.

He come upon Mr Crawley standing at the school door, and stopping at once, jumped off his nag. There was

something in the way in which he sprang out of the saddle and threw the reins to the man, which was not

clerical to Mr Crawley's eyes. No man could be so quick in the matter of a horse who spent as many hours

with the poor and with the children as should be spent by a parish clergyman. It might be probable that Mr

Robarts had never stolen twenty poundsmight never be accused of so disgraceful a crimebut,

'I am generally to be found in the parish,' said the perpetual curate of Hogglestock.

'I know you are,' said Robarts, who knew the man well, and cared nothing for his friend's peculiarities when

he felt his own withers to be unwrung. 'But you might have been down at Hoggle End with the brickmakers,

'Let us go for a walk, and I'll leave the man with the horses. I've something special to say to you, and I can

say it better out here than in the house. Grace is quite well, and sends her love. She is growing to look so

'She is as good a girl as ever I knew. Bythebye, you had Henry Grantly over here the other day?'

'Major Grantly, whom I cannot name without expressing my esteem for him, did do us the honour of calling

upon us not very long since. If it be with reference to him that you have taken this trouble'

'No, no; not at all. I'll allow him and the ladies to fight out that battle. I've not the least doubt in the world

how that will go. When I'm told that she made a complete conquest of the archdeacon, there cannot be any

But Mr Robarts did not wish to have to explain anything further about the archdeacon. 'Were you not terribly

'It was sudden and very awful,' said Mr Crawley. 'Such deaths are always shocking. Not more so, perhaps, as

'No doubt the finite and meagre nature of our feelings does prevent us from extending our sympathies to

those whom we have not seen in the flesh. It should not be so, and would not with one who had nurtured his

heart with the proper care. And we are prone to permit an evil worse than that to canker our regards and to

foster and to mar our solicitudes. Those who are in high station strike us more by their joys and sorrows than

do the poor and lowly. Were some young duke's wife, wedded but the other day, to die, all England would

put on a show of mourningnay, would feel some true gleam of pity; but nobody cares for the widowed

'Ay; and think more of them. But do not suppose, sir, that I complain of this man or that woman because his

sympathies, or hers, runs out of that course which my reason tells me they should hold. The man with whom

it would not be so would simply be a god among men. It is in his perfection as a man that we recognise the

divinity of Christ. It is in the imperfection of men that we recognise our necessity for a Christ. Yes, sir, the

death of the poor lady at Barchester was very sudden. I hope that my lord bears with becoming fortitude the

heavy misfortune. They say that he was a man much beholden to his wifeprone to lean upon her in his

goings out and comings in. For such a man such a loss is more dreadful than for another.'

'I am not prone, sir, to believe much of what I hear about the domesticities of other men, knowing how little

any other man can know of my own. And I have, methinks, observed a proneness in the world to ridicule that

dependence on a woman which every married man should acknowledge in regard to the wife of his bosom, if

he cant trust her as well as love her. When I hear jocose proverbs spoken as to men such as that in this house

the grey mare is the better horse, or that in that house the wife wears that garment which is supposed to

denote virile command, knowing that the joke is easy, and that meekness in a man is more truly noble than

the habit of stern authority, I do not allow them to go far with me in influencing my judgment.'

So spoke Mr Crawley, who never permitted the slightest interference with his own word in his own family,

and who had himself been a witness of one of those scenes between the bishop and his wife in which the poor

bishop had been so cruelly misused. But to Mr Crawley the thing which he himself had seen under such

circumstances was as sacred as though it had come to him under the seal of confession. In speaking of the

bishop and Mrs Proudienay, as far as was possible in thinking of themhe was bound to speak and to

'I don't suppose that there is much doubt as to her real character,' said Robarts. 'But you and I need not discuss

'And just at present there is something else that I specially want to say to you. Indeed, I went to Silverbridge

on the same subject yesterday, and have come here expressly to have a little conversation with you.'

'If it be about affairs of mine, Mr Robarts, I am indeed troubled in spirit that so great labour should have

'Never mind my labour. Indeed your saying that is a nuisance to me, because I hoped that by this time you

would have understood that I regard you as a friend, and that I think nothing any trouble that I do for a friend.

'There I disagree with you. You must excuse me, but I do; and so does Dr Tempest. We think that you have

been a little too much in a hurry since he communicated to you the result of our first meeting.'

'It is, perhaps, hardly worth while for us to go into the whole question; but that man, Thumble, must not come

'I cannot say, Mr Robarts, that the Reverend Mr Thumble has recommended himself to me strongly either by

his outward symbols of manhood or by such manifestation of inward mental gifts as I have succeeded in

obtaining. But my knowledge of him has been so slight, and has been acquired in a manner so likely to bias

me prejudicially against him, that I am inclined to think my opinion should go for nothing. It is, however, the

fact that the bishop has nominated him to do this duty; and that, as I have myself simply notified my decision

to be relieved from the care of the parish, on account of certain unfitness of my own, I am the last man who

'Excuse me, Mr Robarts, but I cannot allow that assertion to pass unquestioned. I must say that I have

'No doubt he did. Will you just listen to me for a moment? Ever since this unfortunate affair of the cheque

became known, Mrs Proudie has been anxious to get you out of the parish. She was a violent woman, and

chose to take this matter up violently. Pray hear me out before you interrupt me. There would have been no

'The commission is right and proper and just,' said Mr Crawley, who could not keep himself silent.

'Very well. Let it be so. But Mr Thumble's coming over here is not proper or right; and you may be sure the

'Let him send any other clergyman whom he may think more fitting,' said Mr Crawley.

'No, not so. Let me go over and see Thumble and SnapperSnapper, you know, is the domestic chaplain;

and all that you need do is to go on with your services on Sunday. If necessary, I will see the bishop. I think

you may be sure that I can manage it. If not, I will come back to you.' Mr Robarts paused for an answer, but it

seemed for a while that all Mr Crawley's impatient desire to speak was over. He walked on silently along the

lane by his visitor's side, and when, after some five or six minutes, Robarts stood still in the road, Mr Crawley

even then said nothing. 'It cannot be but that you should be anxious to keep the income of the parish for your

'Then let me do as I say. Why should you throw away a chance, even if it be a bad one? But here the chance

'Of course I am anxious for my wife and children,' said Crawley, repeating his words; 'how anxious, I fancy

no man can conceive who has not been hear enough to absolute want to know how terrible is its approach

when it threatens those who are weak and who are very dear! But, Mr Robarts, you spoke just now of the

chance of the thingthe chance of your arranging on my behalf that I should for a while longer be left in the

enjoyment of the freehold of my parish. It seemeth to me that there should be no chance on such a subject;

that in the adjustment of so momentous a matter there should be a consideration of right and wrong, and no

consideration of aught beside. I have been growing to feel, for some weeks past, that

circumstanceswhether through my fault or not is an outside question as to which I will not further delay

you by offering even an opinionthat unfortunate circumstances have made me unfit to remain here as

guardian of the souls of the people of this parish. Then there came to me the letter from Dr Tempestfor

which I am greatly beholden to himstrengthening me altogether in this view. What could I do then, Mr

Robarts? Could I allow myself to think of my wife and my children when such a question as that was before

'No sir! Excuse the bluntness of my contradiction, but I feel assured that in such emergency you would look

solely to dutyas by God's help I will endeavour to do. Mr Robarts, there are many of us who in many

things are much worse than we believe ourselves to be. But in other matters, and perhaps of larger moment,

we can rise to ideas of duty as the need for such ideas comes to us. I say not this at all as praising myself. I

speak of men as I believe that they will be found to be;of yourself, of myself, and of others who strive to

live with clean hands and a clear conscience. I do not for a moment think that you would retain your benefice

at Framley if there had come upon you, after much thought, an assured conviction that you could not retain it

without grievous injury to the souls of others and grievous sin to your own. Wife and children, dear as they

are to you and to meas dear to me as to youfade from the sight when the time comes for judgment on

such a matter as that!' They were standing quite still now, facing each other, and Crawley, as he spoke with a

low voice, looked straight into his friend's eyes, and kept his hand firmly fixed on his friend's arm.

'Noyou cannot interfere further.' Robarts, when he told the story of the interview to his wife that evening,

declared that he had never heard a voice so plaintively touching as was the voice of Mr Crawley when he

They turned back to the servant and the house almost without a word, and Robarts mounted without offering

to see Mrs Crawley. Nor did Mr Crawley ask him to do so. It was better now that Robarts should go. 'May

'Mr Robarts, I thank you warmly for your friendship,' said Mr Crawley. And then they parted. In about half

an hour Mr Crawley returned to the house. 'Now for Pindar, Jane,' he said, seating himself at his old desk.

No word or message from Mr Crawley reached Barchester throughout the week, and on the Sunday morning

Mr Thumble was under a positive engagement to go out to Hogglestock, and to perform the services of the

church. Dr Tempest had been quite right in saying that Mr Thumble would be awed by the death of his

patroness. Such was altogether the case, and he was very anxious to escape from the task he had undertaken

at her instance, if it were possible. In the first place, he had never been a favourite with the bishop himself,

and had now, therefore, nothing to expect in the diocese. The crusts and bits of loaves and the morsels of

broken fishes which had come his way had all come from the bounty of Mrs Proudie. And then, as regarded

this special Hogglestock job, how was he to get paid for it? Whence, indeed, was he to seek repayment for the

actual money which he would be out of pocket in finding his way to Hogglestock and back again? But he

could not get to speak to the bishop, nor could he induce anyone who had access to his lordship to touch upon

the subject. Mr Snapper avoided him as much as possible; and Mr Snapper, when he was caught and

interrogated, declared that he regarded the matter as settled. Nothing could be in worse taste, Mr Snapper

thought, than to undo, immediately after the poor lady's death, work in the diocese which had been arranged

and done by her. Mr Snapper expressed his opinion that Mr Thumble was bound to go to Hogglestock; and,

when Mr Thumble declared petulantly the he would not stir a step out of Barchester, Mr Snapper protested

that Mr Thumble would have to answer for it in this world and in the next if there was no services at

Hogglestock on that Sunday. On the Saturday evening Mr Thumble made a desperate attempt to see the

bishop, but was told by Mrs Draper that the bishop had positively declined to see him. The bishop himself

probably felt unwilling to interfere with his wife's doings so soon after her death! So Mr Thumble, with a

heavy heart, went across to the 'Dragon of Wantly', and ordered a gig, resolving that the bill should be sent to

Up to Saturday evening Mr Crawley did the work of the parish, and on the Saturday evening he made an

address to his parishioners from his pulpit. He had given notice among the brickmakers and labourers that he

wished to say a few words to them in the schoolroom; but the farmers also heard of this and came with their

wives and daughters, and all the brickmakers came and most of the labourers were there, so that there was no

room for them in the schoolhouse. The congregation was much larger than was customary even in the church.

'They will come,' he said to his wife, 'to hear a ruined man declare his own ruin, but they will not come to

hear the word of God.' When it was found that the persons assembled were too many for the schoolroom,

the meeting was adjourned to the church, and Mr Crawley was forced to get into his pulpit. He said a short

His story as he told it then shall not be repeated now, as the same story has been told too often already in

these pages. Surely it was a singular story for a parish clergyman to tell himself in so solemn a manner. That

he had applied the cheque to his own purposes, and was unable to account for its possession of it, was certain.

He did not know when or how he had got it. Speaking to them then in God's house he told them that. He was

to be tried by a jury, and all he could do was to tell the jury the same. He would not expect the jury to believe

him. The jury would, of course, believe only that which was proved to them. But he did expect his old friends

at Hogglestock, who had known him so long, to take his word as true. That there was no sufficient excuse for

his conduct, even in his own sight, this, his voluntary resignation of his parish, was, he said, sufficient

evidence. Then he explained to them, as clearly as he was able, what the bishop had done, what the

commission had done, and what he had done himself. That he spoke no word of Mrs Proudie to that audience

need hardly be mentioned here. 'And now, dearest friends, I leave you,' he said, with that weighty solemnity

which was so peculiar to the man, and which he was able to make singularly impressive even on such a

congregation as that of Hogglestock, 'and I trust that the heavy burden but pleasing burden of the charge

which I have had over you may fall into hands better fitted than mine have been for such work. I have always

known my own unfitness, by reason of the worldly cares with which I have been laden. Poverty makes the

spirit poor, and the hands weak, and the heart soreand too often makes the conscience dull. May the latter

never be the case with any of you.' Then he uttered another short prayer, and, stepping down from the pulpit,

walked out of the church, with his weeping wife hanging on his arm, and his daughter following them, almost

dissolved in tears. He never again entered that church as the pastor of the congregation.

There was an old lame man from Hoggle End leaning on his stick near the door as Mr Crawley went out, and

with him was his old lame wife. 'He'll pull through yet,' said the old man to his wife; 'you'll see else. He'll pull

On that night the position of the members of Mr Crawley's household seemed to have changed. There was

something almost of elation in his mode of speaking, and he said soft loving words, striving to comfort his

wife. She, on the other hand, could say nothing to comfort him. She had been averse to the step he was

taking, but had been unable to press her objection in opposition to his great argument as to duty. Since he had

spoken to her in that strain which he had used with Robarts, she also had felt that she must be silent. But she

could not even feign to feel the pride which comes from the performance of a duty. 'What will he do when he

comes out?' she said to her daughter. The coming out spoken of her was the coming out of prison. It was

The breakfast on Sunday morning was to her, perhaps, the saddest scene of her life. They sat down, the three

together, at the usual hournine o'clockbut the morning had not been passed as was customary on

Sundays. It had been Mr Crawley's practice to go into the school from eight to nine; but on this Sunday he

felt, as he told his wife, that his presence would be an intrusion there. But he requested Jane to go and

perform her usual task. 'If Mr Thumble should come,' he said to her, 'be submissive to him in all things.' Then

he stood at his door, watching to see at what hour Mr Thumble would reach the school. But Mr Thumble did

not attend the school on that morning. 'And yet he was very express to me in his desire that I would not

meddle with the duties,' said Mr Crawley to his wife as he stood at the door'unnecessarily urgent, as I may

say I thought at the time.' If Mrs Crawley could have spoken out her thoughts about Mr Thumble at that

At breakfast there was hardly a word spoken. Mr Crawley took his crust and ate it mournfullyalmost

ostentatiously. Jane tried and failed, and tried to hide her failure, failing in that also. Mrs Crawley made no

attempt. She sat behind her teapot, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed. It was as though some last day

'I cannot,' she replied, speaking not in a whisper, but in words which would hardly get themselves articulated.

'For the honour of the lord, you will want the strength which bread can give you,' he said, intimating to her

'Nay, I will not press it,' he said. 'I can go alone.' He uttered no word expressive of a wish that his daughter

should attend the church; but when the moment came, Jane accompanied him. 'What shall I do, mamma?' she

said, 'if I find that I cannot bear it?' 'Try to bear it,' the mother said. 'Try for his sake. You are stronger than I

The tinkle of the church bell was heard at the usual time, and Mr Crawley, hat in hand, stood ready to go

forth. He had heard nothing of Mr Thumble, but had made up his mind that Mr Thumble would not trouble

him. He had taken the precaution to request his churchwarden to be early at the church, so that Mr Thumble

might encounter no difficulty. The church was very near to the house, and any vehicle arriving might have

been heard had Mr Crawley watched closely. But no one had cared to watch Mr Thumble's arrival at the

church. He did not doubt that Mr Thumble would be at the church. With reference to the school, he had had

But just as he was about to start he heard the clatter of a gig. Up came Mr Thumble to the door of the

parsonage, and having come down from his gig was about to enter the house as though it were his own. Mr

Crawley greeted him in the pathway, raising his hat from his head, and expressing a wish that Mr Thumble

might not feel himself fatigued with his drive. 'I will not ask you into my poor house,' he said, standing in the

'Her malady is of the spirit rather than of the flesh,' said Mr Crawley. 'Shall we go to the church?'

'You will find, I trust, that the churchwarden has everything in readiness. I have notified him expressly your

'No partno part whatever,' said Mr Crawley, standing still for a moment as he spoke, and showing plainly

by the tone of his voice how dismayed he was, how indignant he had been made, by so indecent a

proposition. Was he giving up his pulpit to a stranger for any reason less cogent than one which made it

absolutely imperative of him to be silent in that church which had so long been his own?

'Just as you please,' said Mr Thumble. 'Only it's rather hard lines to have to do it all myself after coming all

the way from Barchester this morning.' To this Mr Crawley condescended to make no reply whatever.

In the porch of the church, which was the only entrance, Mr Crawley introduced Mr Thumble to the

churchwarden, simply by a wave of the hand, and then passed on with his daughter to a seat which opened

upon the aisle. Jane was going on to that which she had hitherto always occupied with her mother in the little

chancel; but Mr Crawley would not allow this. Neither to him nor to any of his family was there attached any

Mr Thumble scrambled into the readingdesk some ten minutes after the proper time, and went through the

morning service under, what must be admitted to be, serious difficulties. There were the eyes of Mr Crawley

fixed upon him throughout the work, and a feeling pervaded him that everybody there regarded him as an

intruder. At first this was so strong upon him that Mr Crawley pitied him, and would have encouraged him

had it been possible. But as the work progressed, and as custom and the sound of his own voice emboldened

him, there came to the man some touches of the arrogance which so generally accompanies cowardice, and

Mr Crawley's acute ear detected the moment when it was so. An observer might have seen that the motion of

his hands was altered as they were lifted in prayer. Though he was praying, even in prayer he could not forget

Then came the sermon, preached very often before, lasting exactly halfanhour, and then Mr Thumble's

work was done. Itinerant clergymen, who preach now here and now there, as it had been the lot of Mr

Thumble to do, have at any rate this reliefthat they can preach their sermons often. From the

communiontable Mr Thumble had stated that, in the present peculiar circumstances of the parish, there

would be no second service at Hogglestock for the present; and this was all he said or did peculiar to the

occasion. The moment of the service was over and he got into his gig, and was driven back to Barchester.

'Mamma,' said Jane, as they sat at dinner, 'such a sermon I am sure was never heard in Hogglestock before.

'My dear,' said Mr Crawley energetically, 'keep your criticisms for matters that are profane; then, though they

be childish and silly, they may at least be innocent. Be critical of Eurypides, if you must be critical.' But when

Jane kissed her father after dinner, she, knowing his humour well, felt assured that her remarks had not been

Mr Thumble was neither seen nor heard of again in the parish during the entire week.

One morning about the middle of April Mr Toogood received a telegram from Venice which caused him

instantly to leave his business in Bedford Row and take the first train for Silverbridge. 'It seems to me that

this job will be a deal of time and very little money,' said his partner to him, when Toogood on the spur of the

moment was making arrangements for his sudden departure and uncertain period of absence. 'That's about it,'

said Toogood. 'A deal of time, some expense, and no returns. It is not the kind of business a man can live

upon, is it?' The partner growled, and Toogood went. But we must go with Mr Toogood down to

Silverbridge, and as we cannot make the journey in this chapter, we will just indicate his departure and then

go back to John Eames, who, as will be remembered, was just starting for Florence when we last saw him.

Our dear old friend Johnny had been rather proud of himself as he started from London. He had gotten an

absolute victory over Sir Raffle Buffle, and that alone was gratifying to his feelings. He liked the excitement

of a journey, and especially a journey to Italy; and the importance of the cause of his journey was satisfactory

to him. But above all things he was delighted at having found that Lily Dale was pleased at his going. He had

seen clearly that she was much pleased, and that she had made something of a hero of him because of his

alacrity in the cause of his cousin. He had partially understoodand had understood in a dim sort of

waythat his want of favour in Lily's eyes had come from some deficiency of his own in this respect. She

had not found him to be a hero. She had known him first as a boy, with boyish belongings around him, and

she had seen him from time to time as he became a man, almost with too much intimacy for the creation of

that love with which he wished to fill her heart. His rival had come before her eyes for the first time with all

the glories of Pall Mall heroism about him, and Lily in her weakness had been conquered by them. Since that

she had learned how weak she had beenhow silly, how childish, she would say to herself when she allowed

her memory to go back to the details of her own story; but not the less on that account did she feel the want of

something heroic in a man before she could teach herself to look upon him as more worthy of her regard than

other men. She had still unconsciously hoped in regard to Crosbie, but now that hope had been dispelled as

unconsciously, by simply by his appearance. There had been moments in which John Eames had almost risen

to the necessary pointhad almost made good his footing on the top of some moderate, but still sufficient

mountain. But there had still be a succession of little tumbles unfortunately slips for which he himself

should not always have been held responsible; and he had never quite stood upright on his pinnacle, visible to

Lily's eyes as being really excelsior. Of all this John Eames himself had an inkling which had often made him

uncomfortable. What the mischief was it she wanted of him; and what was he to do? The days for plucking

glory from the nettle danger were clean gone by. He was well dressed. He knew a good many of the right sort

of people. He was not in debt. He had saved an old nobleman's life once upon a time, and had been a good

deal talked about on that score. He had even thrashed the man who had illtreated her. His constancy had

been as the constancy of Jacob! What was it that she wanted of him? But in a certain way he did know what

was wanted; and now, as he started for Florence, intending to stop nowhere till he reached that city, he hoped

But on reaching Paris he heard tidings of Mrs Arabin which induced him to change his plans and make for

Venice instead of for Florence. A banker at Paris, who whom he had brought a letter, told him that Mrs

Arabin would now be found at Venice. This did not perplex him at all. It would have been delightful to have

seen Florencebut was more delightful still to see Venice. His journey was the same as far as Turin; but

from Turin he proceeded through Milan to Venice, instead of going to Bologna to Florence. He had

fortunately come armed with an Austrian passportas was necessary in those bygone days of Venice's

thraldom. He was almost proud of himself, as though he had done something great, when he tumbled in to his

But he was barely allowed to swim in a gondola, for on reaching Venice he found that Mrs Arabin had gone

back to Florence. He had been directed to the hotel which Mrs Arabin had used, and was there told that she

had started the day before. She had received some letter, from her husband as the landlord thought, and had

done so. That was all the landlord knew. Johnny was vexed, but became a little prouder than before as he felt

it to be his duty to go on to Florence before he went to bed. There would be another night in a railway

carriage, but he would live through it. There was just time to have a tub, and a breakfast, to swim in a

gondola, to look at the outside of the Doge's palace, and to walk up and down the piazza before he started

again. It was hard work, but I think he would have been pleased had he heard that Mrs Arabin had retreated

from Florence to Rome. Had such been the case, he would have folded his cloak around him, and have gone

onregardless of brigandsthinking of Lily, and wondering whether anybody else had ever done so much

before without going to bed. As it was, he found that Mrs Arabin was at the hotel in Florencestill in bed, as

he had arrived early in the morning. So he had another tub, another breakfast, and sent up his card'Mr John

Eames'and across the top of it he wrote, 'has come from England about Mr Crawley.' Then he threw

John had found an opportunity of talking to a young lady in the breakfastroom, and had told her of his

deeds. 'I only left London on Tuesday night, and I have come here taking Venice on the road.'

The young lady immediately afterwards told her father. 'I suppose he must be one of the Foreign Office

'Anything but that,' said the gentleman. 'People never talk about their own trades. He's probably a clerk with a

fortnight's leave of absence, seeing how many towns he can do in the time. It's the usual way of travelling

nowadays. When I was young and there were no railways, I remember going from Paris to Vienna without

He was still fast asleep when a servant came to him from Mrs Arabin to say that she would see him at once.

'Yes, yes; I'm quite ready to go on,' said Johnny, jumping up, and thinking of the journey to Rome. But there

was no journey to Rome before him. Mrs Arabin was almost in the next room, and there he found her.

The reader will understand that they had never met before, and hitherto knew nothing of each other. Mrs

Arabin had never heard the name of John Eames till John's card was put into her hands, and would not have

known of his business with her had he not written those few words upon it. 'You have come about Mr

Crawley?' she said to him eagerly. 'I have heard from my father that somebody was coming.'

'Yes, Mrs Arabin; as hard as I could travel. I had expected to find you at Venice.'

'I have just arrived from Venice. They told me at Paris I should find you here. However, that does not matter,

'What!' exclaimed Eames, literally almost knocked backwards by the easiness of the words which contained a

solution for so terrible a difficulty. The Crawley case had assumed such magnitude, and the troubles of the

Crawley family had been so terrible, that it seemed to him to be almost sacrilegious that words so simply

uttered should suffice to cure everything. He had hardly hopedhad at least barely hopedthat Mrs Arabin

might be able to suggest something which would put them all on a track towards the discovery of the truth.

But he found that she had the clue in her hand, and that the clue was one which required no further delicacy

of investigation. There would be nothing more to unravel; no journey to Jerusalem would be necessary!

'Yes,' said Mrs Arabin, 'I gave it to him. They have been writing to my husband about it, and never wrote to

me; and till I received a letter about it from my father, and another from my sister, at Venice the day before

'No; not so much even as that. I had seen in "Galignani" something about a clergyman, but I did not know

what clergyman; and I heard that there was something wrong about Mr Crawley's money, but there has

always been something wrong about money with poor Mr Crawley; and as I knew that my husband had been

written to also, I did not interfere, further than to ask the particulars. My letters have followed me about, and I

only heard at Venice, just before I came here, what was the nature of the case.'

'I telegraphed at once to Mr Toogood, who I understand is acting as Mr Crawley's solicitor. My sister sent me

'I telegraphed to him, telling him that I had given Mr Crawley the cheque, and then I wrote to Archdeacon

Grantly giving him the whole history. I was obliged to come here before I could return home, but I intended

The history of the gift of the cheque was very simple. It has been told how Mr Crawley in his dire distress

had called upon his old friend at the deanery asking for pecuniary assistance. This he had done with so much

reluctance that his spirit had given way while he was waiting in the dean's library, and he had wished to

depart without accepting what the dean was quite willing to bestow upon him. From this cause it had come to

pass there had been no time for explanatory words, even between the dean and his wifefrom whose private

funds had in truth come the money which had been given to Mr Crawley. For the private wealth of the family

belonged to Mrs Arabin, and not to the dean; and was left entirely in Mrs Arabin's hands, to be disposed of as

she might please. Previously to Mr Crawley's arrival at the deanery this matter had been discussed between

the dean and his wife, and it had been agreed between them that a sum of fifty pounds should be given. It

should be given by Mrs Arabin, but it was thought that the gift would come with more comfort to the

recipient from the hands of his old friend than from those of his wife. There had been much discussion

between them as to the mode in which this might be done with the least offence to the man's feelingsfor

they knew Mr Crawley and his peculiarities well. At last it was agreed that the notes should be put into an

envelope, which envelope the dean should have ready with him. But when the moment came the dean did not

have the envelope ready, and was obliged to leave the room to seek his wife. And Mrs Arabin explained to

John Eames that even she had not had it ready, and had been forced to go to her own desk to fetch it. Then, at

the last moment, with the desire of increasing the good to be done to people who were so terribly in want, she

put the cheque for twenty pounds, which was in her possession as money of her own, along with the notes,

and in this way the cheque had been given by the dean to Mr Crawley. 'I shall never forgive myself for not

telling the dean,' she said. 'Had I done that all this trouble would have been saved.'

'Exactly,' said Mrs Arabin. 'I have got to show now that I did not steal ithave I not? Mr Soames will indict

me now. And, indeed, I have had some trouble to refresh my memory as to all the particulars, for you see it is

more than a year past.' But Mrs Arabin's mind was clearer on such matters than Mr Crawley's, and she was

able to explain that she had taken the cheque as part of the rent due to her from the landlord of 'The Dragon

of Wantly', which inn was her property, having been the property of her first husband. For some years past

there had been a difficulty about the rent, things not having gone at 'The Dragon of Wantly' as smoothly as

they had used to go. At once time the money had been paid halfyearly by the landlord's cheque on the bank

of Barchester. For the last yearandahalf this had not been done, and the money had come into Mrs

Arabin's hands at irregular periods and in irregular sums. There was at this moment rent due for twelve

months, and Mrs Arabin expressed her doubt whether she would get it on her return to Barchester. On the

occasion to which she was now alluding, the money had been paid into her own hands, in the deanery

breakfastparlour, by a man she knew very wellnot the landlord himself, but one bearing the landlord's

name, whom she believed to the landlord's brother, or at least his cousin. The man in question was named

Daniel Stringer, and he had been employed in 'The Dragon of Wantly', as a sort of clerk or managing man, as

long as she had known it. The rent had been paid to her by Daniel Stringer quite as often as by Daniel's

brother or cousin, John Stringer, who was, in truth, the landlord of the hotel. When questioned by John

respecting the persons employed at the inn, she said that she did believe that there had been rumours of

something wrong. The house had been in the hands of the Stringers for many yearsbefore the property had

been purchased by her husband's fatherand therefore had been an unwillingness to remove them; but

gradually, so she said, there had come upon her and her husband a feeling that the house must be put into

other hands. 'Yes, I said a good deal about it. I asked why a cheque of Mr Soames's was brought to me,

instead of being taken to the bank for money; and Stringer explained to me that they were not very fond of

going to the bank, as they owed money there, but that I could pay it into my account. Only I kept my account

'I suppose I might, but I didn't. I gave it to poor Mr Crawley insteadlike a fool, as I know now that I was.

And so I have brought all this trouble on him and on her; and now I must rush home, without waiting for the

Eames offered to accompany her, and this offer was accepted. 'It is hard upon you, though,' she said; 'you will

see nothing of Florence. Three hours in Venice, and six in Florence, and no hours at all anywhere else, will

be a hard fate to you on your first trip to Italy.' But Johnny said 'Exelsior' to himself once more, and thought

of Lily Dale, who was still in London, hoping that she might hear of his exertions; and he felt, perhaps, also,

that it would be pleasant to return with a dean's wife, and never hesitated. Nor would it do, he thought, for

him to be absent in the excitement caused by the news of Mr Crawley's innocence and injuries. 'I don't care a

bit about that,' he said. 'Of course, I should like to see Florence, and, of course, I should like to go to bed; but

I will live in hopes that I may do both some day.' And so there grew to be a friendship between him and Mrs

He had driven through Florence; he saw the Venus de' Medici, and he saw the Seggolia; he looked up from

the side of the Duomo to the top of the Campanile, and he walked round the back of the cathedral itself; he

tried to inspect the doors of the Baptistry, and declared that the 'David' was very fine. Then he went back to

The dean was to have joined his wife at Venice, and then they were to have returned together, coming round

by Florence. Mrs Arabin had not, therefore, taken her things away from Florence when she left it, and had

been obliged to return to pick them up on her journey homewards. Hethe deanhad been delayed in his

Eastern travels. Neither Syria or Constantinople had got themselves done as quickly as he had expected, and

he had, consequently, twice written to his wife, begging her to pardon the transgression of his absence for

even yet a few days longer. 'Everything, therefore,' as Mrs Arabin said, 'has conspired to perpetuate this

mystery, which a word from me would have solved. I owe more to Mr Crawley than I can ever pay him.'

'He will be very well paid, I think,' said John, 'when he hears the truth. If you could see the inside of his mind

'He cannot think that, Mr Eames. Besides, at this moment I hope he has heard the truth.'

'That may be, but he did think so. I do believe that he had not the slightest notion where he got it; and, which

is more, not a single person in the whole county had a notion. People thought that he had picked it up, and

'There are some of us at Barchester who do not love her very dearly. I cannot say that she is one of my own

Then they reached Turin, and there, taking up 'Galignani's Messenger' in the readingroom of Trompetta's

Hotel, John Eames saw that Mrs Proudie was dead. 'Look at that,' said he, taking the paragraph to Mrs

Arabin; 'Mrs Proudie is dead!' 'Mrs Proudie dead!' she exclaimed. 'Poor woman! Then there will be peace at

Barchester!' 'I never knew her very intimately,' she afterwards said to her companion, 'and I do not know that

I have a right to say that she ever did me an injury. But I remember well her first coming into Barchester. My

sister's fatherinlaw, the late bishop, was just dead. He was a mild, kind, dear old man, whom my father

loved beyond all the world, except his own children. You may suppose we were all a little sad. I was not

specially connected with the cathedral then, except through my father'and Mrs Arabin, as she told all this,

remembered that in the days of which she was speaking she was a young mourning widow'but I think I can

never forget the sort of harshtoned paean of lowchurch trumpets with which that poor woman made her

entry into the city. She might have been more lenient, as we had never sinned by being very high. She might,

at any rate, have been more gentle with us at first. I think we had never attempted much beyond decency,

goodwill and comfort. Our comfort she utterly destroyed. Goodwill was not to her taste. And as for

decency, when I remember some things, I must say that when the comfort and goodwill went, the decency

went along with them. And now she is dead! I wonder how the bishop will get on without her.'

Mrs Arabin and Johnny became fast friends as they journeyed home. There was a sweetness in his character

which endeared him readily to women; though, as we have seen, there was a want of something to make one

woman cling to him. He could be soft and pleasantmannered. He was fond of making himself useful, and

was a perfect master of all those little caressing modes of behaviour in which the caress is quite impalpable,

and of which most women know the value and appreciate the comfort. By the time that they had reached

Paris John had told the whole story of Lily Dale and Crosbie, and Mrs Arabin had promised to assist him, if

'Of course I have heard of Lily Dale,' she said, 'because we know the De Courcys.' Then she turned away her

face, almost blushing, as she remembered the first time that she had seen that Lady Alexandrina De Courcy

whom Mr Crosbie had married. It had been at Mr Thorne's house at Ullathorne, and on that day she had done

a thing which she had never since remembered without blushing. But it was an old story now, and a story of

which her companion knew nothingof which he never could know anything. That day at Ullathorne Mrs

Arabin, the wife of the Dean of Barchester, than whom there was no more discreet clerical matron in the

'Yes,' said John, speaking of Crosbie, 'he was a wise fellow; he knew what he was about; he married an earl's

'And now I remember hearing that somebody gave him a terrible beating. Perhaps it was you?'

He bit his lip as he told himself that he was not enough of a hero. 'I don't know about that,' said Johnny. 'I

think what a man ought to do in these days is to seem not to care what he eats and drinks, and to have his

They slept a night at Paris, as they had done also at TurinMrs Arabin not finding herself able to

accomplish such marvels in the way of travelling as her companion had achievedand then arrived in

London in the evening. She was taken to a certain quiet clerical hotel at the top of Suffolk Street, much

patronised by bishops and deans of the better sort, expecting to find a message there from her husband. And

there was the message just arrived. The dean had reached Florence three days after her departure; and as

he would do the journey home in twentyfour hours less than she had taken, he would be there, at the hotel,

on the day after tomorrow. 'I suppose I may wait for him, Mr Eames?' said Mrs Arabin.

'I will see Mr Toogood tonight, and I will call here tomorrow, whether I see him or not. At what hour will

'Don't trouble yourself to do that. You must take care of Sir Raffle Buffle, you know.'

'I shan't go near Sir Raffle Buffle tomorrow, nor yet the next day. You mustn't suppose that I am afraid of Sir

'You are only afraid of Lily Dale.' From all which it may be seen that Mrs Arabin and John Eames had

It was then arranged that he should call on Mr Toogood that same night or early next morning, and that he

should come to the hotel at twelve o'clock on the next day. Going along one of the passages he passed two

gentlemen in shovel hats, with very black new coats and kneebreeches; and Johnny could not but hear a few

words which one clerical gentleman said to the other. 'She was a woman of great energy, of wonderful spirit,

but a firebrand, my lorda complete firebrand!' Then Johnny knew that the Dean of A was talking to the

We will now go back to Mr Toogood as he started for Silverbridge, on the receipt of Mrs Arabin's telegram

from Venice. 'I gave cheque to Mr Crawley. It was part of a sum of money. Will write to Archdeacon Grantly

today, and return home at once.' That was the telegram which Mr Toogood received at his office, and on

receiving which he resolved that he must start to Barchester immediately. 'It isn't certainly what you would

call a paying business,' he said to his partner, who continued to grumble; 'but it must be done all the same. If

it don't get into the ledger in one way it will in another.' So Mr Toogood started for Silverbridge, having sent

to his house in Tavistock Square for a small bag, a clean shirt, and a toothbrush. And as he went down to the

railwaycarriage, before he went to sleep, he turned it all over in his mind. 'Poor devil! I wonder whether any

man suffered so much before. And as for that womanit's ten thousand pities that she should have died

before she heard it. Talk of heartcomplaint!; she'd have had a touch of heart complaint if she had known

this!' Then, as he was speculating how Mrs Arabin could have come possessed of the cheque he went to

He made up his mind that the first person to be seen was Mr Walker, and after that he would, if possible, go

to Archdeacon Grantly. He was at first minded to go at once to Hogglestock; but when he remembered how

very strange Mr Crawley was in all his ways, and told himself professionally that telegrams were but bad

sources of evidence on which to depend for details, he thought that it would be safer if he were first to see Mr

Walker. There would be very little delay. In a day or two the archdeacon would receive his letter, and in a

It was late in the evening before Mr Toogood reached the house of the Silverbridge solicitor, having the

telegram carefully folded in his pocket; and he was shown into the diningroom while the servant took his

name up to Mr Walker. The clerks were gone, and the office was closed; and persons coming on business at

such timesas they often did come to that housewere always shown into the parlour. 'I don't know

whether master can see you tonight,' said the girl; 'but if he can, he'll come down.'

When the card was brought up to Mr Walker he was sitting alone with his wife. 'It's Toogood,' said he; 'poor

'I wonder whether he has found anything out,' said Mrs Walker. 'May he not come up here?' Then Mr

Toogood was summoned into the drawingroom, to the maid's astonishment; for Mr Toogood had made no

toilet sacrifices to the goddess of grace who presides over evening society in provincial townsand

presented himself with the telegram in his hand. 'We have found out all about poor Crawley's cheque,' he

said, before the maidservant had closed the door. 'Look at that,' and he handed the telegram to Mr Walker.

The poor girl was obliged to go, though she would have given one her ears to know the exact contents of that

'Walker, what is it?' said his wife, before Walker had had time to make the contents of the document his own.

'So I did; but a lawyer thinks that nobody can ever seen anything but himself;begging your pardon, Mr

Toogood, but I forgot you were one of us. But, Walker, do read it.' Then the telegram was read; 'I gave the

cheque to Mr Crawley. It was part of a sum of money'with the rest of it. 'I knew it would come out,' said

'But he didn't get it from the dean; and the dean clearly knew nothing about it.'

'I'll tell you what it is,' said Mrs Walker; 'it has been some private transaction between Mr Crawley and Mrs

Arabin, which the dean knew nothing about; and so he wouldn't tell. I must say I honour him.'

'I don't think it has been that,' said Walker. 'Had he known all through that it had come from Mrs Arabin, he

would never have said that Mr Soames gave it to him, and then that the dean gave it to him.'

'The truth has been that he has known nothing about it,' said Toogood; 'and we shall have to tell him.'

At that moment Mary Walker came into the room, and Mrs Walker could not constrain herself. 'Mary, Mr

'Who says so? How do you know? Oh, dear; I am so happy, if it's true.' Then she saw Mr Toogood and

'It is quite true, my dear,' said Mr Walker. 'Mr Toogood has had a message by the wires from Mrs Arabin at

Venice. She is coming home at once, and no doubt everything will be put right. In the meantime, it may be a

question whether we should not hold our tongues. Mr Crawley himself, I suppose, knows nothing of it yet?'

'I should think that probably all Silverbridge knows it by this time,' said Mrs Walker, 'because Jane was in the

room when the announcement was made. You may be sure that every servant in the house has been told.'

Mary Walker, not waiting for any further command from her father, hurried out of the room to convey the

It was known throughout Silverbridge that night, and indeed it made so much commotion that it kept many

people for an hour out of their beds. Ladies who were not in the habit of going out late at night without the fly

from the 'George and Vulture', tied their heads up in their handkerchiefs, and hurried up and down the street

to tell each other that the great secret had been discovered, and that in truth Mr Crawley had not stolen the

cheque. The solution of the mystery was not known to allwas known on that night only to the very select

portion of the aristocracy of Silverbridge to whom it was communicated by Mary Walker or Miss Anne

Prettyman. For Mary Walker, when earnestly entreated by Jane, the parlourmaid, to tell her something more

of the great news, had so far respected her father's caution as to say not a word about Mrs Arabin. 'Is it true,

Miss Mary, that he didn't steal it?' Jane asked imploringly. 'It is true. He did not steal it.' 'And who did, Miss

Mary? Indeed I won't tell anybody.' 'Nobody. But don't ask any more questions, for I won't answer them. Get

me my hat at once, for I want to go up to Miss Prettyman's.' Then Jane got Miss Walker's hat, and

immediately afterwards scampered into the kitchen with the news. 'Oh, law, cook, it's all come out! Mr

Crawley's as innocent as the unborn babe. The gentleman upstairs what's just come, and was here once

'If master said so, then there ain't a doubt as they'll find him innocent. And who took'd, Jane?'

'That's nonsense, Jane. It stands to reason as somebody had it as hadn't ought to have had it. But I'm glad as

anything as how the poor reverend gent'll come off;I am. They tells me it's weeks sometimes before a bit

of butcher's meat finds its way into his house.' Then the groom and the housemaid and the cook, one after

another, took occasion to slip out of the backdoor, and poor Jane, who had really been the owner of the

Miss Walker found the two Miss Prettymans sitting together over their accounts in the elder Miss Prettyman's

private room. And she could see at once by signs which were not unfamiliar to her that Miss Anne Prettyman

was being scolded. It often happened that Miss Anne Prettyman was scolded, especially when the accounts

were brought out upon the table. 'Sister, they are illegible,' Mary Walker heard, as the servant opened the

'I don't think it's quite so bad as that,' said Miss Anne, unable to restrain her defence. Then, as Mary entered

the room, Miss Prettyman the elder laid her hands down on certain books and papers as though to hide them

'I've brought such a piece of news,' said Mary. 'I knew you'd be glad to hear it, so I ventured to disturb you.'

Both the ladies sprang on to their legs. Even Miss Prettyman herself jumped up on to her legs. 'No!' said

'Not exactly that. Mr Toogood has come down from London to tell him. Mr Toogood, you know, is Mr

Crawley's cousin; and he is a lawyer, like papa.' It may be observed that ladies belonging to the families of

'He has heard it by a message from Mrs Arabin. But you mustn't mention this. You won't, please, because

papa asked me not. I told him that I should tell you.' Then, for the first time, the frown passed away entirely

from Miss Prettyman's face, and the papers and account books were pushed aside, as being of no moment.

Mary continued her story almost in a whisper. 'It was Mrs Arabin who sent the cheque to Mr Crawley. She

'I really do think that Mr Crawley could forget anything,' said the younger sister.

'If he said so, it must be true,' said Miss Prettyman; 'and I am rejoiced. I really am rejoiced. Poor man! Poor

illused man! And nobody has ever believed that he has really been guilty, even though they may have

thought that he spent the money without any proper right to it. And now he will get off. But, dear me, Mary,

Mr Smithe told me yesterday that he had already given up his living, and that Mr Spooner, the minor canon,

was trying to get it from the dean. But that was because Mr Spooner and Mrs Proudie had quarrelled; and as

'They'll never go and put anybody in Hogglestock, Annabella, over Mr Crawley's head,' said Anne.

'I didn't say that they would. Surely I may be allowed to repeat what I hear, like another person, without being

'You're always snapping me up. But if this is true, I cannot say how glad I am. My poor Grace! Now, I

suppose, there will be no difficulty, and Grace will become a great lady.' Then they discussed very minutely

John Walker, Mr Winthrop, and several others of the chosen spirits of Silverbridge, were playing whist at a

provincial club, which had established itself in the town, when the news was brought to them. Though Mr

Winthrop was the partner of the great Walker, and though John Walker was the great man's son, I fear that

the news reached their ears in but an underhand sort of way. As for the great man himself, he never went near

the club, preferring his slippers and tea at home. The Walkerian groom, rushing up the street to the 'George

and Vulture', paused a moment to tell his tidings to the club porter; from the club porter it was whispered

respectfully to the Silverbridge apothecary, who, by special grace, was a member of the cluband was by

him repeated with much cautious solemnity over the cardtable. 'Who told you that, Balsam?' said John

'I shouldn't wonder if it's true,' said Winthrop. 'I always said that something would turn up.'

'Done,' said Winthrop; 'in pounds.' That morning the odds in the club against the event had been only two to

one. But as the matter was discussed, the men in the club began to believe the tidings, and before he went

home, John Walker would have been glad to hedge his bet on any terms. After he had spoken to his father, he

But Mr Walkerthe great Walkerhad more to do that night before his son came home from the club. He

and Mr Toogood agreed that it would be right that they should see Dr Tempest at once, and they went over

together to the rectory. It was past ten at this time, and they found the doctor almost in the act of putting out

the candles for the night. 'I could not but come to you, doctor,' said Mr Walker, 'with the news that my friend

has brought. Mrs Arabin gave the cheque to Crawley. Here is a telegram from her saying so.' And the

He stood perfectly silent for a few minutes, reading it over and over again. 'I see it all,' he said, when he

spoke at last. 'I see it all now; and I must own I was never before so much puzzled in my life.'

'I own I can't see why she should have given him Mr Soames's cheque,' said Mr Walker.

'I can't say where she got it, and I own I don't much care,' said Dr Tempest. 'But I don't doubt but what she

gave him without telling the dean, and that Crawley thought it came from the dean. I'm very glad. I am,

indeed, very glad. I do not know that I ever pitied a man so much in my life as I have pitied Mr Crawley.'

'It must have been a hard case when it has moved him,' said Mr Walker to Toogood as they left the

clergyman's house; and then the Silverbridge attorney saw the attorney from London home to the inn.

It was the general opinion at Silverbridge that the news from Venice ought to be communicated to the

Crawleys by Major Grantly. Mary Walker had expressed this opinion very strongly, and her mother had

agreed with her. Miss Prettyman also felt that poetical justice, or, at least, the romance of justice, demanded

this; and, as she told her sister Anne after Mary Walker left her, she was of the opinion that such an

arrangement might tend to make things safe. 'I do think he is an honest man and a fine fellow,' said Miss

Prettyman; 'but, my dear, you know what the proverb says, "There's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip".' Miss

Prettyman thought than anything which might be done to prevent a slip ought to be done. The idea that the

pleasant task of taking the news out to Hogglestock ought to be confided to Major Grantly was very general;

but then Mr Walker was of the opinion that the news ought not to be taken to Hogglestock at all till

something more certain than the telegram had reached them. Early on the following morning the two lawyers

should go over at once to Barchester, and that the Silverbridge lawyer should see Major Grantly. Mr Toogood

was still of the opinion that with due diligence something might yet be learned as to the cheque by inquiry

among the denizens of 'The Dragon of Wantly'; and his opinion to this effect was stronger than ever when he

Mr Walker, after breakfast, had himself driven up in his open carriage to Cosby Lodge, and, as he entered the

gates, observed that the auctioneer's bills as to the sale had been pulled down. The Mr Walkers of the world

know everything, and our Mr Walker had quite understood that the major was leaving Cosby Lodge because

of some misunderstanding with his father. The exact nature of the misunderstanding he did not know, even

though he was Mr Walker, but had little doubt that it referred in some to Grace Crawley. It the archdeacon's

objection to Grace arose from the imputation against the father, that objection would now be removed, but the

abolition of the posters could not as yet have been owing to any such cause as that. Mr Walker found the

major at the gate of the farmyard attached to Cosby Lodge, and perceived that at that very moment he was

engaged in superintending the abolition of sundry other auctioneer's bills from sundry posts. 'What is all this

'Postponed for good, I hope? Bill to be read again this day six months!' said Mr Walker.

Mr Walker had got out of the carriage, and had taken Major Grantly aside. 'Just come a little further,' he said;

'I've something special to tell you. News reached me last night which will clear Mr Crawley altogether. We

'Yes, I do. And though the news had reached us in such a way that we cannot act upon it till it's confirmed, I

'No, not the dean. What we know is this, that your aunt has telegraphed to Crawley's cousin, Toogood, to say

that she gave Crawley the cheque, and that she has written to your father about it at length. We do not like to

tell Crawley till that letter has been received. It is so easy, you know, to misunderstand a telegram, and the

'Toogood received it in London only yesterday morning. Your father will not get his letter, as I calculate, till

the day after tomorrow. But, perhaps, you had better go over to see him, and prepare him for it. Toogood has

gone to Barchester this morning.' To this proposition Grantly made no immediate answer. He could not but

remember the terms on which he had left his father; and though he had, most unwillingly, pulled down the

auctioneer's bills, in compliance with his mother's last prayer to himand, indeed, had angrily told the

auctioneer to send him his bill when the auctioneer had demurred to these proceedings nevertheless he was

hardly prepared to discuss the matter of Mr Crawley with his father in pleasant wordsin words which

should be full of rejoicing. It was a great thing for him, Henry Grantly, that Mr Crawley should be innocent,

and he did rejoice; but he had intended his father to understand that he meant to persevere, whether Mr

Crawley were innocent or guilty, and thus he would now lose an opportunity for establishing his

obstinacyan opportunity which had not been without a charm for him. He must console himself as best he

might with the returning prospect of assured prosperity, and with his renewed hopes as to the Plumstead

foxes! 'We think, major, that when the time comes you ought to be the bearer of the news to Hogglestock,'

said Mr Walker. Then the major did undertake to convey the news to Hogglestock, but he made no promise

In accordance with his arrangement with Mr Walker, Mr Toogood went over to Barchester early in the

morning and put himself up at 'The Dragon of Wantly'. He now knew the following facts: that Mr Soames,

when he lost the cheque, had had with him one of the servants from that innthat the man who had been

with Mr Soames had gone to New Zealandthat the cheque had found its way into the hands of Mrs Arabin,

and that Mrs Arabin was the owner of the inn in question. So much he believed to be within his knowledge,

and if his knowledge should prove to be correct, his work would be done as far as Mr Crawley was

concerned. If Mr Crawley had not stolen the cheque, and if that could be proved, it would be a question of no

great moment to Mr Toogood who had stolen it. But he was a sportsman in his own line who liked to account

for his own fox. As he was down at Barchester, he thought that he might as well learn how the cheque had

got into Mrs Arabin's hands. No doubt that for her own possession of it she would be able to account on her

return. But it might be well that he should be prepared with any small circumstantial details which he might

He reached Barchester before breakfast, and in ordering his tea and toast, reminded the old waiter with the

dirty towel of his former acquaintance with him. 'I remember you, sir,' said the old waiter. 'I remember you

very well. You was asking questions about the cheque which Mr Soames lost before Christmas.' Mr Toogood

certainly had asked one question on the subject. He had inquired whether a certain man who had gone to New

Zealand had been the postboy who accompanied Mr Soames when the cheque was lost; and the waiter had

professed to know nothing about Mr Soames or the cheque. He now perceived at once that the gist of the

question had remained in the old man's mind, and that he was recognised as being in some way connected

'Then what the devil did you tell me?' To this further question the waiter sulkily declined to give any answer,

and soon afterwards left the room. Toogood, as soon as he had done his breakfast, rang the bell, and the same

man appeared. 'Will you tell Mr Stringer that I should be glad to see him if he's disengaged,' said Mr

Toogood. 'I know he's bad with the gout, and therefore if he'll allow me, I'll go to him instead of his coming

to me.' Mr Stringer was the landlord of the inn. The waiter hesitated a moment, and then declared that to the

best of his belief his master was not down. He would go and see. Toogood, however, would not wait for that;

but rising quickly and passing the waiter, crossed the hall from the coffeeroom, and entered what was called

the bar. The bar was a small room connected with the hall by a large open window, at which orders for rooms

were given and cash was paid, and glasses of beer were consumedand a good deal of miscellaneous

conversation was carried on. The barmaid was here at the window, and there was also, in the corner of the

room, a man at a desk with a red nose. Toogood knew that the man at the desk with the red nose was Mr

Stringer's clerk. So much he had learned in his former rummaging about the inn. And he also remembered at

this moment that he had observed the man with the red nose standing under a narrow archway in the close as

he was coming out of the deanery, on the occasion of his visit to Mr Harding. It had not occurred to him then

that the man with the red nose was watching him, but it did occur to him now that the man with the red nose

had been there, under the arch, with the express purpose of watching him on that occasion. Mr Toogood

passed quickly through the bar into the inner parlour, in which was sitting Mr Stringer, the landlord, propped

among his cushions. Toogood, as he entered the hotel, had seen Mr Stringer so placed, through the two doors,

which at that moment had both happened to be open. He knew therefore that his old friend the waiter had not

been quite true to him in suggesting that his master was not as yet down. As Toogood cast a glance of his eye

on the man with the red nose, he told himself the old story of the apparition under the archway.

'Oh dear, no sir,' said the forlorn man. 'Nobody ever intrudes coming in here. I'm always happy to see

'Not just today, sir. I've been a little easier since Saturday. The worst of this burst is over. But Lord bless you,

sir, it don't leave menot for a single fortnight at a time, now; it don't. And it ain't what I drink, nor it ain't

'Look here, sir'; and Stringer showed his visitor the chalk stones in all his knuckles. 'They say I'm a mass of

chalk. I sometimes think they'll break me up to mark the scores behind my own door with.' And Mr Stringer

Mr Toogood laughed too. He laughed loud and cheerily. And then he asked a sudden question, keeping his

eye as he did so upon a little square open window which communicated between the landlord's private room

and the bar. Through this small aperture he could see as he stood a portion of the hat worn by the man with

the red nose. Since he had been in the room with the landlord, the man with the red nose had moved his head

twice, on each occasion drawing himself closer into his corner; but Mr Toogood, by moving also, had still

contrived to keep a morsel of that hat in sight. He laughed cheerily at the landlord's joke, and then he asked a

sudden questionlooking at the morsel of that hat as he did so. 'Mr Stringer,' said he, 'how do you pay your

rent, and to whom do you pay it?' There was immediately a jerk in the hat, and then it disappeared. Toogood,

stepping to the open door, saw that the rednosed clerk had taken his hat off and was very busy at his

'How do I pay my rent?' said Mr Stringer, the landlord. 'Well, sir, since this cursed gout has been so bad, it's

hard enough to pay it at all sometimes. You ain't here to look for it, sir, are you?'

'Not I,' said Toogood. 'It was only a chance question.' He felt that he had nothing more to do with Mr

Stringer, the landlord. Mr Stringer, the landlord, knew nothing about Mr Soames's cheque. 'What's the name

'The name of my clerk?' said Mr Stringer. 'Why do you want to know the name of my clerk?'

'Well, yes; he does, at times. He pays it into the bank for the lady as owns this house. Is there any reason for

you asking these questions, sir. It isn't usual, you know, for a stranger, sir.'

Toogood the whole of this time was standing with his eye upon the rednosed man, and the rednosed man

could not move. The rednosed man heard all the questions and the landlord's answers, and could not even

pretend that he did not hear them. 'I am my cousin's clerk,' said he, putting on his hat, and coming up to Mr

Toogood with a swagger. 'My name is Dan Stringer, and I'm Mr John Stringer's cousin. I've lived with Mr

John Stringer for twelve year and more, and I'm a'most as well known in Barchester as himself. Have you

'I hope there's nothing wrong?' said the gouty man, trying to get off his chair, but not succeeding. 'If there is

anything wronger than usual, Dan, do tell me. Is there anything wrong, sir?' and the landlord appealed

'Never you mind, John,' said Dan. 'You keep yourself quiet, and don't answer none of his questions. He's one

of them low sort, he is. I know him. I knowed him for what he is directly I saw him. Ferreting aboutthat's

'That's the cheque the parson stole,' said Dan Stringer. 'He's to be tried for it at the 'sizes.'

'You've heard about Mr Soames and his cheque, and about Mr Crawley, I daresay?' said Mr Toogood.

'And so, I daresay, have you?' said Toogood, turning to Dan Stringer. But Dan Stringer did not seem inclined

to carry on the conversation any further. When he was hardly pressed, he declared that he just had heard that

there was some parson in trouble about a sum of money; but that he knew no more about it than that. He

didn't know whether it was a cheque or a note that the parson had taken, and had never been sufficiently

'But you've just said that Mr Soames's cheque was the cheque the parson stole,' said the astonished landlord,

'You be blowed,' said Dan Stringer, the clerk, to Mr John Stringer, the landlord; and then walked out of the

'I understand nearly all about it,' said Mr Toogood, following the rednosed clerk. There was no necessity

that he should trouble the landlord any further. He left the room, and went through the bar, and as he passed

out along the hall, he found Dan Stringer with his hat on talking to the waiter. The waiter immediately pulled

himself up, and adjusted his dirty napkin under his arm, after the fashion of waiters, and showed that he

intended to be civil to the customers of the house. But he of the red nose cocked his hat, and looked with

insolence at Mr Toogood, and defied him. 'There's nothing I do hate so much as them lowbred Old Bailey

attorneys,' said Mr Dan Stringer to the waiter, in a voice intended to reach Mr Toogood's ears. Then Mr

Toogood told himself that Dan Stringer was not the thief himself, and that it might be very difficult to prove

that Dan had even been the receiver of stolen goods. He had, however, no doubt in his own mind but that

He first went to the police office, and there explained his business. Nobody at the police office pretended to

forget Mr Soames's cheque, or Mr Crawley's position. The constable went so far as to swear that there wasn't

a man, woman, or child in all Barchester who was not talking of Mr Crawley at that present moment. Then

Mr Toogood went with the constable to the private house of the mayor, and had a little conversation with the

mayor. 'Not guilty!' said the mayor, with incredulity, when he first heard the news about Crawley. But when

he heard Mr Toogood's story, or as much of it as it was necessary that he should hear, he yielded reluctantly.

'Dear, dear!' he said. 'I'd have bet anything 'twas he who stole it.' And after that he mayor was quite sad. Only

let us think what a comfortable excitement it would create throughout England if it was surmised that an

archbishop had forged a deed; and how England would lose when it was discovered that the archbishop was

innocent! As the archbishop and his forgery would be to England, so was Mr Crawley and the cheque for

twenty pounds to Barchester and its mayor. Nevertheless, the mayor promised his assistance to Mr Toogood.

Mr Toogood, still neglecting his rednosed friend, went next to the deanery, hoping that he might again see

Mr Harding. Mr Harding was, he was told, too ill to be seen. Mr Harding, Mrs Baxter said, could never be

seen now by strangers, nor yet by friends, unless they were very old friends. 'There's been a deal of change

since you were here last, sire. I remember you coming, sir. You were talking to Mr Harding about the poor

clergyman as is to be tried.' He did not stop to tell Mrs Baxter the whole story of Mr Crawley's innocence; but

having learned that a message had been received to say that Mrs Arabin would be home on the next

Tuesdaythis being Fridayhe took his leave of Mrs Baxter. His next visit was to Mr Soames, who lived

He found it very difficult to convince Mr Soames. Mr Soames was more staunch in his belief of Mr Crawley's

guilt than anyone whom Toogood had yet encountered. 'I never took the cheque out of his house,' said Mr

Soames. 'But you have not stated that on oath,' said Mr Toogood. 'No,' rejoined the other; 'and I never will. I

can't swear to it; but yet I'm sure of it.' He acknowledged that he had been driven by a man named Scuttle,

and that Scuttle might have picked up the cheque, if it had been dropped in the gig. But the cheque had not

been dropped in the gig. The cheque had been dropped in Mr Crawley's house. 'Why did he say then that I

paid it to him?' said Mr Soames, when Mr Toogood spoke confidently of Mr Crawley's innocence. 'Ah, why

indeed?' answered Toogood. 'If he had not been fool enough to do that, we should have been saved all this

trouble. All the same, he did not steal your money, Mr Soames; and Jem Scuttle did steal it. Unfortunately,

Jem Scuttle is in New Zealand by this time.' 'Of course, it is possible,' said Mr Soames, as he bowed Mr

That evening a gentleman with a red nose asked at the Barchester station for a secondclass ticket for London

by the up nightmail train. He was wellknown at the station, and the stationmaster made some little

'I don't think you'd better go up to London tonight, Mr Stringer,' said a tall man, stepping out of the door of

the bookingoffice. 'I think you'd better come back with me to Barchester. I do indeed.' There was some little

argument on the occasion; but the stranger, who was a detective policeman, carried his point, and Mr Dan

Henry Grantly had written the following short letter to Mrs Grantly when he had made up his mind to pull

down the auctioneer's bills. 'DEAR MOTHERI have postponed the sale, not liking to refuse you anything.

As far as I can see, I shall be forced to leave Cosby Lodge, as I certainly shall do all I can to make Grace

Crawley my wife. I say this that there may be no misunderstanding with my father. The auctioneer has

This had been written by the major on the Friday before Mr Walker had brought up to him the tidings of Mr

Toogood and Mrs Arabin's solution of the Crawley difficulty; but it did not reach Plumstead till the following

morning. Mrs Grantly immediately took the glad news about the sale to her husbandnot of course showing

him the letter, being far too wise for that, and giving him credit for being too wise to ask for it. 'Henry has

arranged with the auctioneer,' she said joyfully; 'and the bills have been all pulled down.'

'I've just heard from him. He has told me so. Come, my dear, let me have the pleasure of hearing you say that

'I want him to come over here, and take an interest in things, and not treat me as though I were a nobody.'

Within an hour of this the major had arrived at Plumstead, laden with the story of Mrs Arabin and the cheque,

and of Mr Crawley's innocenceladen not only with such tidings as he had received from Mr Walker, but

also with further details, which had received from Mr Toogood. For he had come through Barchester, and had

seen Mr Toogood on his way. This was on the Saturday morning, and he had breakfasted with Mr Toogood at

'The Dragon of Wantly'. Mr Toogood had told him of his suspicionshow the rednosed man had been

stopped and had been summoned as a witness for Mr Crawley's trialand how he was now under

surveillance of the police. Grantly had not cared very much about the rednosed man, confining his present

solicitude to the question whether Grace Crawley's father would certainly be shown to have been innocent of

the theft. 'There's not a doubt about it, major,' said Mr Toogood; 'no a doubt on earth. But we'd better be a

little quiet till your aunt comes homejust a little quiet.' In spite of his desire for quiescence Mr Toogood

consented to a revelation being at once made to the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly. 'And I'll tell you what,

major; as soon as ever Mrs Arabin is here, and has given us her own word to act on, you and I will go over to

Hogglestock and astonish them. I should like to go myself, because, you see, Mrs Crawley is my cousin, and

we have taken a little trouble about this matter.' To this the major assented; but he altogether declined to

assist in Mr Toogood's speculations respecting the unfortunate Dan Stringer. It was agreed between them that

for the present no visit should be made to the palace, as it was thought that Mr Thumble had better be allowed

to go to Hogglestock duties on the next Sunday. As matters went, however, Mr Thumble did not do so. He

It may be as well to explain here that the unfortunate Mr Snapper was constrained to go out to Hogglestock

on the Sunday which was now approachingwhich fell out as follows. It might be all very well for Mr

Toogood to arrange that he would not tell this person or that person of the news which he had brought down

from London; but as he had told the police at Barchester, of course the tale found its way to the palace. Mr

Thumble heard it, and having come by this time thoroughly to hate Hogglestock and all that belonged to it, he

pleaded to Mr Snapper that this report offered ample reason why he need not again visit that detested parish.

Mr Snapper did not see it in the same light. 'You may be sure Mr Crawley will not get into the pulpit after his

'I won't provide for them,' said Thumble; 'and so you may tell the bishop.' In these days Mr Thumble was

very angry with the bishop, for the bishop had not yet seen him since the death of Mrs Proudie.

Mr Snapper had no alternative but to go to the bishop. The bishop in these days was very mild to those whom

he saw, given but to few words, and a little astrayas though he had had one of his limbs cut offas Mr

Snapper expressed it to Mrs Snapper. 'I shouldn't wonder if he felt as though all his limbs were cut off,' said

Mrs Snapper; 'you must give him time, and he'll come round byandby.' I am inclined to think that Mrs

Snapper's opinion of the bishop's feelings and condition was correct. In his difficulty respecting Hogglestock

and Mr Thumble, Mr Snapper went to the bishop, and spoke perhaps a little too harshly of Mr Thumble.

'I think, upon the whole, Snapper, that you had better go yourself,' said the bishop.

'Everything is inconvenient; but you'd better go. And look here, Snapper, if I were you, I wouldn't say

anything out at Hogglestock about the cheque. We don't know what it may come to yet.' Mr Snapper, with a

heavy heart, left his patron, not at all liking the task that was before him. But his wife encouraged him to be

obedient. He was the owner of a onehorse carriage, and the work was not, therefore, so hard to him as it

would have been and had been to poor Mr Thumble. And, moreover, his wife promised to go with him. Mr

Snapper and Mrs Snapper did go over to Hogglestock, and the duty was done. Mrs Snapper spoke a word or

two to Mrs Crawley, and Mr Snapper spoke a word or two to Mr Crawley; but not a word was said about the

news as to Mr Soames's cheque, which was now almost current in Barchester. Indeed, no whisper about it

'One word with you, reverend sir,' said Mr Crawley to the chaplain, as the latter was coming out of the

church, 'as to the parish work, sir, during the weekI should be glad if you would favour me with your

'Whether you think that I may be allowed, without scandal, to visit the sickand to give instruction in the

'Mr Thumble gave me to understand that the bishop was very urgent that I should interfere in no way in the

ministrations of the parish. Twice he did enjoin on me that I should not interfereunnecessarily, as it

'Quite unnecessary,' said Mr Snapper. 'And the bishop will be obliged to you, Mr Crawley, if you'll just see

'I wish it were possible to know with accuracy what his idea of straightness is,' said Mr Crawley to his wife.

'It may be that things are straight to him when they are buried as it were out of sight, and put away without

trouble. I hope it be not so with the bishop.' When he went into his school and rememberedas he did

remember through every minute of his teachingthat he was to receive no portion of the poor stipend which

was allotted for the clerical duties of the parish, he told himself that there was gross injustice in the way in

But we must go back to the major and the archdeacon at Plumstead in which comfortable parish things

were generally made straight more easily than at Hogglestock. Henry Grantly went over from Barchester to

Plumstead in a gig from the 'The Dragon', and made his way at once into his father's study. The archdeacon

was seated there with sundry manuscripts before him, and with one halffinished manuscriptas was his

wont on every Saturday morning. 'Hallo, Harry,' he said. 'I didn't expect you in the least.' It was barely an

hour since he had told Mrs Grantly that his complaint against his son was that he wouldn't come and make

'Father,' said he, giving the archdeacon his hand, 'you have heard nothing yet about Mr Crawley?'

'No,' said the archdeacon, jumping up; 'nothing new;what is it?' Many ideas about Mr Crawley at that

moment flitted across the archdeacon's mind. Could it be that the unfortunate man had committed suicide,

'Yes; from my aunt Eleanor. She has telegraphed over from Venice to say that she gave the identical cheque

to Crawley. That is all we know at presentexcept that she has written an account of the matter to you, and

'Crawley's lawyera fellow named Toogood, a cousin of his wife'sa very decent fellow,' added the major,

remembering how necessary it was that he should reconcile his father to all the Crawley belongings. 'He's to

'There's a great deal to be done yet. Crawley does not know himself at this moment how the cheque got into

his hands. He must be told and something must be settled about the living. They've taken the living away

from him among them. And then the indictment must be quashed, or something of that kind done. Toogood

has got hold of the scoundrel at Barchester who really stole the cheque from Soames;or thinks he has. It's

'He's got hold of a regular scamp, then. I never knew any good of Dan Stringer,' said the archdeacon.

Then Mrs Grantly was told, and the whole story was repeated again, with many expressions of commiseration

in reference to all the Crawleys. The archdeacon did not join in these at first, being rather shy on that head. It

was very hard for him to have to speak to his son about the Crawleys as though they were people in all

respects estimable and wellconducted, and satisfactory. Mrs Grantly understood this so well, that every now

and then she said some halflaughing word respecting Mr Crawley's peculiarities, feeling that in this way she

might ease her husband's difficulties. 'He must be the oddest man that ever lived,' said Mrs Grantly, 'not to

have known where he got the cheque.' The archdeacon shook his head, and rubbed his hands as he walked

about the room. 'I suppose too much learning has upset him,' said the archdeacon. 'They say he's not very

The archdeacon was perfectly aware that he had to admit Mr Crawley to his goodwill, and that as for Grace

Crawleyit was essentially necessary that she should be admitted to his heart of hearts. He had promised as

much. It must be acknowledged that Archdeacon Grantly always kept his promises, and especially such

promises as these. And indeed it was the nature of the man that when he had been angry with those he loved,

he should be unhappy till he had found some escape from his anger. He could not endure to have to own to

himself that he had been wrong, but he could be content with a very incomplete recognition of his having

been in the right. The posters had been pulled down and Mr Crawley, as he was now told, had not stolen the

cheque. That was sufficient. If his son would only drink a glass or two of wine with him comfortably, and

talk dutifully about the Plumstead foxes, all should be held to be right, and Grace Crawley should be received

with lavish paternal embraces. The archdeacon had kissed Grace once, and he felt that he could do so again

'Say something to your father about the property after dinner,' said Mrs Grantly to her son when they were

'About this property, or any property; you know what I mean;something to show that you are interested

about his affairs. He is doing the best he can to make things right.' After dinner, over the claret, Mr Thorne's

terrible sin in reference to the trapping of foxes was accordingly again brought up, and the archdeacon

became beautifully irate, and expressed his animosity which he did not in the least feelagainst an old

friend with an energy which would have delighted his wife, if she could have heard him. 'I shall tell Thorne

my mind, certainly. He and I are very old friends; we have known each other all our lives; but I cannot put up

with this kind of thingand I will not. It's all because he's afraid of his own gamekeeper.' And yet the

archdeacon had never ridden after a fox in his life, and never meant to do so; nor had in truth been always so

very anxious that foxes should be found in his covers. That fox which had been so fortunately trapped just

outside the Plumstead property afforded a most pleasant escape for the steam of his anger. When he began to

talk to his wife about Mr Thorne's wicked gamekeeper, she was so sure that all was right, that she said a word

'If he's to marry her, we might as well have her over here,' said the archdeacon.

'That's just what I was thinking,' said Mrs Grantly. And thus things at the rectory got themselves arranged.

On the Sunday morning the expected letter from Venice came to hand, and was read on that morning very

anxiously, not only by Mrs Grantly and the major, but by the archdeacon also, in spite of the sanctity of the

day. Indeed the archdeacon had been very stoutly antisabbatarial when the question of stopping the Sunday

post to Plumstead had been mooted in the village, giving those who on that occasion were the special friends

of the postman to understand that he considered them to be numbskulls, and little better than idiots. The

postman, finding the parson to be against him, had seen that there was no chance for him, and had allowed

the matter to drop. Mrs Arabin's letter was long and eager, and full of repetitions, but it did explain clearly to

him the exact manner in which the cheque had found its way into Mr Crawley's hand. 'Francis came up to

me,' she said in her letterFrancis being her husband, the dean'and asked me for the money, which I had

promised to make up in a packet. The packet was not ready, and he would not wait, declaring that Mr

Crawley was in such a flurry that he did not like to leave him. I was therefore to bring it down to the door. I

went to my desk, and thinking that I could spare the twenty pounds as well as the fifty, I put the cheque into

the envelope, together with the notes, and handed the packet to Francis at the door. I think I told Francis

afterwards that I put seventy pounds into the envelope, instead of fifty, but of this I will not be sure. At any

rate Mr Crawley got Mr Soames's cheque from me.' These last words she underscored, and then went on to

explain how the cheque had been paid to her a short time before by Dan Stringer.

'I hope they'll hang him,' said Mrs Grantly. 'He must have known all the time what dreadful misery he was

'Not a straw,' said the archdeacon, and then all hurried off to church; and the archdeacon preached the sermon

in the fabrication of which he had been interrupted by his son, and which therefore barely enabled him to turn

a quarter of an hour from the giving out of his text. It was his constant practice to preach for a full twenty

As Barchester lay on the direct road from Plumstead to Hogglestock, it was thought well that word should be

sent to Mr Toogood, desiring him not to come out to Plumstead on the Monday morning. Major Grantly

proposed to call for him at the 'Dragon', and to take him from thence to Hogglestock. 'You had better take

your mother's horses all through,' said the archdeacon. The distance was very nearly twenty miles, and it was

felt by both the mother and the son, that the archdeacon must be in a good humour when he made such a

proposition as that. It was not often that the rectory carriagehorses were allowed to make long journeys. A

run into Barchester and back, which was altogether under ten miles, was generally the extent of their work. 'I

meant to have posted from Barchester,' said the major. 'You may as well take the horses through,' said the

archdeacon. 'Your mother will not want them. And I suppose you might as well bring your friend Toogood

'He must be a good sort of man,' said Mrs Grantly; 'for I suppose he has done this all for love?'

'Yes; and spent a lot of money out of his own pocket too!' said the major enthusiastically. 'And the joke of it

is, that he has been defending Crawley in Crawley's teeth. Mr Crawley had refused to employ counsel; but

Toogood had made up his mind to have a barrister, on purpose that there might be a fuss about it in court. He

'Bring him here, and we'll hear all about that from himself,' said the archdeacon. The major, before he started,

told his mother that he should call at Framley Parsonage on his way back; but he said nothing on this subject

'I'll write to her in a day or two,' said Mrs Grantly, 'and we'll have things settled pleasantly.'

Major Grantly made an early start, knowing that he had a long day's work before him. He had written

overnight to Mr Toogood, naming the hour at which he would reach 'The Dragon', and was there punctual to

the moment. When the attorney came out and got into the open carriage, while the groom held the steps for

him, it was plain to see that the respect in which he was held at 'The Dragon' was greatly increased. It was

already known that he was going to Plumstead that night, and it was partly understood that he was engaged

with the Grantly and Arabin faction in defending Mr Crawley the clergyman against the Proudie faction. Dan

Stringer, who was still at the inn, as he saw his enemy get into the Plumstead carriage, felt himself to be one

of the palace party, and felt that if Mrs Proudie had only lived till after the assizes all this heavy trouble

would not have befallen him. The waiter with the dirty napkin stood at the door and bowed, thinking perhaps

that as the Proudie party was going down in Barchester, it might be as well to be civil to Mr Toogood. The

days of the Stringers were probably drawing to a close at the 'The Dragon of Wantly', and there was no

Henry Grantly and the lawyer found very little to say to each other on their long way out to Hogglestock.

They were thinking, probably, much of the coming interview, and hardly knew how to express their thoughts

to each other. 'I will not take the carriage up to the house,' said the major, as there were entering the parish of

Hogglestock; 'particularly as the man must feed the horses.' So they got out of a farmhouse about half a mile

from the church, where the offence of the carriage and the liveryservant would be well out of Mr Crawley's

sight, and from thence walked towards the parsonage. The church, and the school close to it, lay on their way,

and as they passed by the school door they heard voices within. 'I'll bet twopence he's there,' said Toogood.

'They tell me he's always either in one shop or the other. I'll slip in and bring him out.' Mr Toogood had

assumed a comfortable air, as though the day's work was to be good pastime, and even made occasional

attempts at drollery. He had had his jokes about Dan Stringer, and had attempted to describe the absurdities

of Mr Crawley's visit to Bedford Row. All this would have angered the major, had he not seen that it was

assumed to cover something below of which Mr Toogood was a little ashamed, but of which, as the major

thought, Mr Toogood had no cause to be ashamed. When, therefore, Toogood proposed to go into the school

and bring Mr Crawley out, as though the telling of their story would be the easiest thing in the world, the

major did not stop him. Indeed he had no plan of his own ready. His mind was too intent on the tragedy

which had occurred, and which was now to be brought to a close, to enable him to form any plan as to the

best way of getting up the last scene. So Mr Toogood, with quick and easy steps, entered the school, leaving

the major still standing in the road. Mr Crawley was in the schoolas also was Jane Crawley. 'So here you

'If I am not mistaken in the identity, my wife's relative, Mr Toogood?' said Mr Crawley, stepping down from

'Just so, my friend,' said Toogood, with his hand extended, 'just so; and there's another gentleman outside who

wants to have a word with you. Perhaps you won't mind stepping out. These are the young Hogglestockians;

The young Hogglestockians stared at him, and so did Jane. Jane, who had before heard of him, did not like

him at first sight, seeing that her father was clearly displeased by the tone of the visitor's address. Mr Crawley

was displeased. There was a familiarity about Mr Toogood which made him sore, as having been exhibited

before his pupils. 'If you will be pleased to step out, sir, I will follow you,' he said, waving his hand towards

the door. 'Jane, my dear, if you will remain with the children I will return to you presently. Bobby Studge has

failed in saying his Belief. You had better set him on again from the beginning. Now, Mr Toogood.' And

'So that's my young cousin, is it?' said Toogood, stretching over and just managing to touch Jane's

fingersof which act of touching Jane was very chary. Then he went forth, and Mr Crawley followed him.

There was the major standing in the road and Toogood was anxious to be the first to communicate the good

news. It was the only reward he had proposed to himself for the money he had expended and the time he had

lost and the trouble he had taken. 'It's all right, old fellow,' he said, clapping his hand on Mr Crawley's

shoulder. 'We've got the right sow by the ear at last. We know all about it.' Mr Crawley could hardly

remember the time when he had been called an old fellow last, and now he did not like it; nor, in the

confusion of his mind, could he understand the allusion to the right sow. He supposed that Toogood had

come to him about his trial, but it did not occur to him that the lawyer might be bringing him news which

might make the trial altogether unnecessary. 'If my eyes are not mistaken, there is my friend, Major Grantly,'

'There he is, as large as life,' said Toogood. 'But stop a moment before you go to him, and give me your hand.

I must have the first shake of it.' Hereupon Crawley extended his hand. 'That's right. And now let me tell you

we know all about the chequeSoames's cheque. We know where you got it. We know who stole it. We

know how it came to the person who gave it to you. It's all very well talking, but when you're in trouble

By this time Mr Crawley was looking full into Mr Toogood's face, and seeing that his cousin's eyes were

streaming with tears began to get some insight into the man's character, and also some very dim insight into

the facts which the man intended to communicate to himself. 'I do not as yet fully understand you, sir,' he

said, 'being perhaps in such matters somewhat dull of intellect, but it seemeth to me that you are the

'Beautiful!' said Toogood. 'By George, I should think they are beautiful! Don't you hear me tell you that we

have found out all about the cheque, and that you're as right as a trivet?' They were still on the little causeway

leading from the school up the road, and Henry Grantly was waiting for them at the small wicketgate. 'Mr

Crawley,' said the major, 'I congratulate you with all my heart. I could not but accompany my friend, Mr

'I do not even yet altogether comprehend what has been told to me,' said Crawley, now standing out on the

road between the other two men. 'I am doubtless dullvery dull. May I beg some clearer word of

'Your aunt Eleanor!' said Crawley, now altogether in the clouds. Who was the major's aunt Eleanor? Though

he had, no doubt, at different times heard all the circumstances of the connection, he had never realised the

'She put it into the envelope with the notes,' said Toogood'slipped it in without saying a word to anyone. I

never heard of a woman doing such a thing in my life before. If she had died, or if we hadn't caught her,

where should we all have been? Not but what I think I should have run Dan Stringer to ground too, and

'Gentlemen,' said Mr Crawley. 'I was sure of it. I knew it. Weak as my mind may beand at times it is very

weakI was certain that I could not have erred in such a matter. The more I struggled with my memory the

more fixed with me became the factwhich I had forgotten but for a momentthat the document had

formed a part of that small packet handed to me by the dean. But look you, sirsbear with me yet for a

'Bear with me yet awhile. So far have I been misdoubting the deanwhom I have long known to be in all

things a true and honest gentlemanthat I postponed the elaborated result of my own memory to his word.

And I felt myself the more constrained to do this, because in a moment of forgetfulness, I had allowed myself

to make a false statementunwittingly false, indeed, nonetheless very false, unpardonably false. I had

declared without thinking, that the money had come to me from the hands of Mr Soames, thereby seeming to

cast a reflection upon that gentleman. When I had been guilty of so great a blunder, of so gross a violation of

that ordinary care which should govern all words between man and man, especially when any question of

money may be in doubthow could I expect that anyone should accept my statement when contravened by

that made by the dean? Gentlemen, I did not believe my own memory. Though all the little circumstances of

that envelope, with its rich but perilous freightage, came back upon me from time to time with an exactness

that has appeared to me to be almost marvellous, yet I have told myself that it was not so! Gentlemen, if you

please, we will go into the house; my wife is there, and should not longer be left in suspense.' They passed on

in silence for a few steps, till Crawley spoke again. 'Perhaps you will allow me the privilege to be alone with

her for one minutebut for a minute. Her thanks shall not be delayed, where thanks are so richly due.'

'Of course,' said Toogood, wiping his eyes with a large red bandana handkerchief. 'By all means. We'll take a

little walk. Come, along, major.' The major had turned his face away, and he also was weeping. 'By George! I

never heard such a thing in all my life,' said Toogood. 'I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. I

'I don't know about being a hero. I never quite knew what makes a hero, if it isn't having three or four girls

dying in love for you at once. But to find a man who was going to let everything in the world go against him,

because he believed another fellow better than himself! There's many a chap thinks another man is

woolgathering; but this man has thought he was woolgathering himself! It's not natural; and the world

wouldn't go on if there many like that. He's beckoning us, and we had better go in.'

Mr Toogood went first, and the major followed him. When they entered the front door at the end of the

passage, and on entering the room to the left they found Mr Crawley alone. 'She has fled, as though from an

enemy,' he said, with a little attempt at a laugh; 'but I will pursue her, and bring her back.'

'No, Mr Crawley, no,' said the lawyer. 'She's a little upset, and all that kind of thing. We know what women

'Nay, Mr Toogood; but then she would be angered with herself afterwards, and would lack the comfort of

having spoken a word of gratitude. Pardon me, Major Grantly; but I would not have you leave us till she has

seen you. It is as her cousin says. She is somewhat overexcited. But still, it will be the best that she should

Then he went out to fetch his wife, and while he was away not a word was spoken. The major looked out of

one window and Mr Toogood out of the other, and they waited patiently till they heard the coming steps of

the husband and wife. When the door was opened, Mr Crawley appeared, leading his wife by the hand. 'My

dear,' he said, 'you know Major Grantly. This is your cousin, Mr Toogood. It is well that you know him too,

and remember his great kindness to us.' But Mrs Crawley could not speak. She could only sink on the sofa,

and hide her face, while she strove in vain to repress her sobs. She had been very strong through all her

husband's troublesvery strong in bearing for him what he could not bear for himself, and in fighting on his

behalf battles in which he was altogether unable to couch a lance; but the endurance of so many troubles and

the great overwhelming sorrow at last had so nearly overpowered her, that she could not sustain the shock of

this turn in their fortunes. 'She was never like this, sirs, when ill news came to us,' said Mr Crawley, standing

The major sat himself by her side, and put his hand upon hers, and whispered some word to her about her

daughter. Upon this she threw her arms around him, and kissed his face, and then his hands, and then looked

up into his face through her tears. She murmured some few words, or attempted to do so. I doubt whether the

'And now I think we might as well be moving,' said Mr Toogood. 'I'll see about having the indictment

quashed. I'll arrange all that with Walker. It may be necessary that you should go into Barchester the first day

the judges sit; and if so, I'll come and fetch you. You may be sure I won't leave the place till it's all square.'

As they were going, Grantlyspeaking now altogether with indifference to Toogood's presenceasked Mr

'She can hear it in no tones that can be more grateful to her,' said Mr Crawley.

'I shall ask her for nothing for myself now,' said Grantly. 'It would be ungenerous. But hereafterin a few

'Major Grantly,' said Mr Crawley solemnly. 'I respect you so highly, and esteem you so thoroughly, that I

give willingly that which you ask. If my daughter can bring herself to regard you, as a woman should regard

her husband, with the love that can worship and cling and be constant, she will, I think, have a fair promise of

worldly happiness. And for you, sir, in giving you my girlif so be it that she is given to youI shall

bestow upon you a great treasure.' Had Grace been a king's daughter, with a queen's dowry, the permission to

address her could not have been imparted to her lover with a more thorough appreciation of the value of

'He's a rum one,' said Mr Toogood, as they got into the carriage together; 'but they say he's a very good 'un to

After their departure Jane was sent for, that she might hear the family news; and when she expressed some

feeling not altogether in favour of Mr Toogood, Mr Crawley thus strove to correct her views. 'He is a man,

my dear, who conceals a warm heart, and an active spirit, and healthy sympathies, under an affected

jocularity of manner, and almost with a touch of vulgarity. But when the jewel itself is good, any fault in the

The village of Framley lies slightly off the road from Hogglestock to Barchesterso much so as to add

perhaps a mile to the journey if the traveller goes by the parsonage gate. On their route to Hogglestock our

two travellers had passed Framley without visiting the village, but on the return journey the major asked Mr

Toogood's permission to make the deviation. 'I'm not in a hurry,' said Toogood. 'I never was more

comfortable in my life. I'll just light a cigar while you go in and see your friends.' Toogood lit his cigar, and

the major, getting down from the carriage, entered the parsonage. It was his fortune to find Grace alone.

Robarts was in Barchester, and Mrs Robarts was across the road, at Lufton Court. 'Miss Crawley is certainly

in,' the servant told him, and he soon found himself in Miss Crawley's presence.

'We have just come from Hogglestockyour cousin Mr Toogood, that is, and myself. They have found out

all about the cheque. My aunt, Mrs Arabin, the dean's wife, you knowshe gave it to your father.'

'Yes; everything. Everything about that.' Now he had hold of her hand as if he were going. 'Goodbye. I told

'You may believe it; indeed you may.' He still held her hand. 'You will write to your mother I daresay tonight.

'Dear, dear, Grace! My darling Grace!' Then he took her into his arms and kissed her, and went his way

without another word, feeling that he had kept his word to her father like a gentleman. Grace, when she was

left alone, thought that she was the happiest girl in Christendom. If she could only get to her mother, and tell

everything, and be told everything! She had no idea of any promise that her lover may have made to her

father, nor did she make inquiry of her own thoughts as to the reasons for staying with her so short a time; but

In the meantime, the major, with Mr Toogood, was driven home to dinner at Barchester.

John Eames, as soon as he had left Mrs Arabin at the hotel and had taken his travellingbag to his own

lodgings, started off for his uncle Toogood's house. There he found Mrs Toogood, not in the most serene state

of mind as to her husband's absence. Mr Toogood had now been at Barchester for the best part of a

weekspending a good deal of money at the inn. Mrs Toogood was quite sure that he must be doing that.

Indeed, how could he help himself? Johnny remarked that he did not see how in such circumstances his uncle

was to help himself. And then Mr Toogood had only written one short scrap of a letterjust three words, and

they were written in triumph. 'Crawley is all right, and I think I've got the real Simon Pure by the heels.' 'It's

all very well, John,' Mrs Toogood said; 'and of course it would be a terrible thing of the family if anybody

connected with it were made out to be a thief.' 'It would be quite dreadful,' said Johnny. 'Not that I ever

looked upon the Crawleys as connections of ours. But, however, let that pass. I'm sure I'm very glad that your

uncle should have been able to be of service to them. But there's reason in the roasting of eggs, and I can tell

you that money is not so plenty in this house that your uncle can afford to throw it in the Barchester gutters.

Think what twelve children are, John. It might be all very well if Toogood were a bachelor, and if some lord

had left him a fortune.' John Eames did not stay very long in Tavistock Square. His cousins Polly and Lucy

were gone to the play with Mr Summerkin, and his aunt was not in one of her best humours. He took his

uncle's part as well as he could, and then left Mrs Toogood. The little allusion to Lord De Guest's generosity

had not been pleasant to him. It seemed to rob him of all his own merit. He had been rather proud of his

journey to Italy, having contrived to spend nearly forty pounds in ten days. He had done everything in the

most expensive way, feeling that every napoleon wasted had been laid out on behalf Mr Crawley. But, as Mrs

Toogood had just told him, all this was nothing to what Toogood was doing. Toogood with twelve children

was living at his own charges at Barchester and was neglecting his business besides. 'There's Mr Crump,' said

Mrs Toogood. 'Of course he doesn't like it, and what can I say when he comes to me?' This was not quite fair

on the part of Mrs Toogood, as Mr Crump had not troubled her even once as yet since her husband's

What was Johnny to do, when he left Tavistock Square? His club was open to him. Should he go to his club,

play a game of billiards, and have some supper? When he asked himself the question he knew that he would

not go to his club, and yet he pretended to doubt about it, as he made his way to a cabstand in Tottenham

Court Road. It would be slow, he told himself, to go to his club. He would have gone to Lily Dale, only that

his intimacy with Mrs Thorne was not sufficient to justify his calling at her house between nine and ten

o'clock at night. But, as he must go somewhereand as his intimacy with Lady Demolines was, he thought,

sufficient to justify almost anythinghe would go to Bayswater. I regret to say that he had written a

mysterious not from Paris to Madalina Demolines, saying that he should be in London on this very night, and

that it was just on the cards that he might make his way up to Porchester Terrace before he went to bed. The

note was mysterious, because it had neither beginning nor ending. It did not contain even initials. It was

written like a telegraph message, and was about as long. It was the kind of thing Miss Demolines liked,

Johnny thought; and there could be no reason why he should not gratify her. It was her favourite game. Some

people like whist, some like croquet, and some like intrigue. Madalina probably would have called it

romancebecause she was by nature romantic. John, who was made of sterner stuff, laughed at this. He

knew that there was no romance in it. He knew that he was only amusing himself, and gratifying her at the

same time, by a little innocent pretence. He told himself that it was his nature to prefer the society of women

to that of men. He would have liked the society of Lily Dale, no doubt, much better than that of Miss

Demolines; but as the society of Lily Dale was not to be had at that moment, the society of Miss Demolines

was the best substitute within his reach. So he got into a cab and had himself driven to Porchester Terrace. 'Is

Lady Demolines at home?' he said to the servant. He always asked for Lady Demolines. But the page who

was accustomed to open the door for him was less false, being young, and would now tell him, without any

further fiction, that Miss Madalina was in the drawingroom. Such was the answer he got from the page on

this evening. What Madalina did with her mother on these occasions he had never yet discovered. There used

to be some little excuses given about Lady Demolines' state of health, but latterly Madalina had discontinued

her references to her mother's headaches. She was standing in the centre of the drawingroom when he

entered it, with both her hands raised, and an almost terrible expression of mystery in her face. Her hair,

however, had been very carefully arranged so as to fall with copious carelessness down her shoulders, and

altogether she was looking her best. 'Oh, John,' she said. She called him John by accident in the tumult of the

'Heard what? I have heard nothing,' said Johnny, arrested almost in the doorway by the nature of the

questionand partly also, no doubt, by the tumult of the moment. He had no idea how terrible a tragedy was

in truth in store for him; but he perceived that the moment was to be tumultuous, and that he must carry

'Come in and close the door,' she said. He came in and closed the door. 'Do you mean to say that you haven't

'No;what has happened in Hook Court?' Miss Demolines threw herself back into an armchair, closed her

eyes, and clasped both her hands upon her forehead. 'What has happened in Hook Court?' said Johnny,

Then he took one of her hands down from her forehead and held it in hiswhich she allowed passively. She

'Don't,' said she. 'How can you talk in that way, when my heart is bleedingbleeding.' Then she pulled away

'But why is your heart bleeding? What has happened in Hook Court?' Still she answered nothing, but she

sobbed violently and the heaving of her bosom showed how tumultuous was the tumult within it. 'You don't

'Man,' said Madalina, jumping up from her chair, standing at her full height, and stretching out both her arms,

'he has destroyed himself!' The revelation was at last made with so much tragic propriety, in so excellent a

tone, and with such an absence of all the customary redundancies of commonplace relation, that I think that

she must have rehearsed the sceneeither with her mother or with the page. Then there was a minute's

silence, during which she did not move even an eyelid. She held her outstretched hands without dropping a

finger half an inch. Her face was thrust forward, her chin projecting, with tragic horror; but there was no

vacillation even in her chin. She did not wink an eye, or alter to the breadth of a hair the aperture of her lips.

Surely she was a great genius if she did it all without previous rehearsal. Then, before he had thought of

words in which to answer her, she let her hands fall to her side, she closed her eyes, and shook her head, and

fell back again into her chair. 'It's too horrible to be spoken ofor to be thought about,' she said. 'I could not

This would naturally have been flattering to Johnny had it not been that he was in truth absorbed by the story

'Do you mean to tell me,' he said, 'that Broughton hascommitted suicide?' She could not speak of it again,

but nodded her head at him thrice, while her eyes were still closed. 'And how was the manner of it?' said he,

asking the question in a low voice. He could not even as yet bring himself to believe it. Madalina was so fond

of a little playful intrigue, that even this story might have something in the nature of fiction. He was not quite

'Would you have me repeat to you all the bloody details of that terrible scene?' she said. 'It is impossible. Go

to your friend Dalrymple. He will tell you. He knows it all. He has been with Maria all through. I wishI

wish it had not been so.' But nevertheless she did bring herself to narrate all the details with something more

of circumstance than Eames desired. She soon succeeded in making him understand the tragedy of Hook

Court was a reality, and that poor Dobbs Broughton had brought his career to an untimely end. She had heard

everythinghaving indeed gone to Musselboro in the City, and having penetrated even to the sanctum of Mr

Banglesthe reader may remember him, Burton and Bangles, who kept the stores for Himalaya wines at 22

shillings and 6 pence the dozen, in Hook Courtwas a bachelor, and rather liked the visit, and told Miss

Demolines very freely all he had seen. And when she suggested that it might be expedient for the sake of the

family that she should come back to Mr Bangles for further information at a subsequent period, he very

politely assured her that she would 'do him proud', whenever she might please to call at Hook Court. And

then he saw her in Lombard Street, and put her into an omnibus. She was therefore well qualified to tell

Johnny all the particulars of the tragedyand she did so far overcome her horror as to tell them all. She told

her tale somewhat after the manner of Aeneas, not forgetting the 'quorum pars magna fui.' 'I feel that it almost

'But it does. To have been concerned in so terrible a tragedy takes more of life out of one than ten years of

tranquil existence.' As she had told him nothing of her intercourse with Bangleswith Bangles who had

literally picked the poor wretch uphe did not see how she herself had been concerned in the matter; but he

said nothing about that, knowing the character of Madalina. 'I shall seethatbody, floating before my

eyes while I live,' she said, 'and the gory wound, andand' 'Don't,' said Johnny, recoiling in truth from the

picture by which he was revolted. 'Never again,' she said, 'never again! But you forced it from me, and now I

She then became very comfortably confidential, and discussed the affairs of poor Mrs Dobbs Broughton with

a great deal of satisfaction. 'I went to see her, of course, but she sent me down word to say that the shock

would be too much for her. I do not wonder that she should not see me. Poor Maria! She came to me for

advice, you know, when Dobbs Broughton first proposed to her; and I was obliged to tell her what I really

thought. I knew her character well? "Dear Maria," I said, "if you think that you can love him, take him!" "I

think I can," she replied. "But," said I, "make yourself quite sure about the business." And how has it turned

out? She never loved him. What heart she has she has given to that wretched Dalrymple.'

'I don't see that he is particularly wretched,' said Johnny, pleading for his friend.

'He is wretched, and so you'll find. She gave him her heart after giving her hand to poor Dobbs; and as for the

business, there isn't as much left as will pay for her mourning. I don't wonder that she could not bring herself

'It belongs to Mrs Van Sieverto her and Musselboro. Poor Broughton had some little money, and it has

gone among them. Musselboro, who never had a penny, will be a rich man. Of course you know that he is

'I always told you that it would be so. And now you may perhaps acknowledge that Conway Dalrymple's

prospects are not very brilliant. I hope he likes being cut out by Mr Musselboro! Of course he will have to

marry Maria. I do not see how he can escape. Indeed, she is too good for him;only after such a marriage as

that, there would be an end to all his prospects as an artist. The best thing for them would be to go to New

John Eames certainly liked these evenings with Miss Demolines. He sat at his ease in a comfortable chair,

and amused himself by watching her different little plots. And then she had bright eyes, and she flattered him,

and allowed him to scold her occasionally. And now and again there might be some more attraction, when

she would admit him to take her handor the like. It was better than to sit smoking with men at his club. But

he could not sit up all night even with Madalina Demolines, and at eleven he got up to take his leave. 'When

'I do not know,' he answered, frowning at her. He always frowned at her when she spoke to him of Miss Dale.

'I do not in the least care for your frowns,' she said playfully, putting up her hands to smooth his brows. 'I

'A very cold goddess, I should think, from what I hear. I wish to ask you for a promise respecting her.'

'Not unless you tell me why.' Johnny had already assured himself that nothing could be more improbable than

'Very well, sir. Then you may go. And I must say that unless you can comply with so slight a request as that,

I shall not care to see you here again. Mr Eames, why should you want to speak evil of me to Miss Dale?'

'I know that you could not speak of me to her without at least ridicule. Come, promise me. You shall come

She hesitated a moment, and then shook her head. 'No. I cannot tell you now. My heart is still bleeding with

the memory of that poor man's face. I will not tell you now. And yet is not that you must give me the

'There is my own friend! And now, John, mind you are here at halfpast eight on Thursday. Punctually at

halfpast eight. There is a thing I have to tell you, which I will tell you then if you will come. I had thought

'I cannot. My feelings are too many for me. I should never go through with it after all that has between us

about poor Broughton. I should break down; indeed I should. Go now, for I am tired.' Then having probably

taken a momentary advantage of that more potent attraction to which we have before alluded, he left the room

He left the room very suddenly because Madalina's movements had been so sudden, and her words so full of

impulse. He had become aware that in this little game in which he was playing in Porchester Terrace

everything ought to be done after some unaccustomed and special fashion. Sohaving clasped Madalina for

one moment in his armshe made a rush at the room door, and was out on the landing in a second. He was a

little too quick for old Lady Demolines. The skirt of whose nightdressas it seemed to Johnnyhe saw

whisking away, in at another door. It was nothing, however, to him if old Lady Demolines, who was always

When he found himself alone in the street, his mind reverted to Dobbs Broughton and the fate of the

wretched man, and he sauntered slowly down Paris Gardens, that he might look at the house in which he had

dined with a man who had destroyed himself by his own hands. He stood for a moment looking up at the

windows, in which there was now no light, thinking of the poor woman whom he had seen in the midst of

luxury, and who was now left a widow in such miserable circumstances! As for the suggestion that his friend

Conway would marry her, he did not believe it for a moment. He knew too well what the suggestions of his

Madalina were worth, and the motives from which they sprung. But he thought it might be true that Mrs Van

Siever had absorbed all there was of the property, and possibly, also, that Musselboro was to marry her

daughter. At any rate, he would go to Dalrymple's rooms, and if he could find him, would learn the truth. He

knew enough of Dalrymple's ways of life, and of the ways of his friend's chambers and studio, to care nothing

for the lateness of the hour, and in a very few minutes he was sitting in Dalrymple's armchair. He found

Siph Dunn there, smoking in unperturbed tranquillity, and as long as that lasted he could ask no questions

about Mrs Broughton. He told them, therefore, of his adventures abroad, and of Crawley's escape. But at last,

'Tell me,' said John, as soon as Dunn had closed the door, 'what is this I hear about Dobbs Broughton?'

'That has gone to the dogs. They say at least that his share of it had done so.'

'The less I say the better. I have my hopesonly you're such a talkative fellow, one can't trust you.'

'Wellthat fact is, I have an idea that something may be saved for the poor woman. I think that they are

wronging her. Of course all I can do is put the matter into lawyer's hands and pay the lawyer's bill. So I went

'And what about Jael, Conway? They tell me Jael is going to become Mrs Musselboro.'

'Yes; I know who the bird is. I don't think that Jael will become Mrs Musselboro. I don't think Jael would

become Mrs Musselboro, if Jael were the only woman, and Musselboro the only man in London. To tell you

a little bit of a secret, Johnny, I think that Jael will become the wife of Conway Dalrymple. That is my

'The bird hinted that all this would end in your marrying the widow of that poor wretch who destroyed

'Johnny, my boy,' said the artist after a moment's silence, 'if I give you a bit of advice, will you profit by it?'

'Whether you profit by it, or whether not, keep it to yourself. I know the bird better than you do, and I

strongly caution you to beware of the bird. The bird is a bird of prey, and altogether an unclean bird. The bird

wants a mate, and doesn't much care how she gets it. And the bird wants money, and doesn't care how she

gets it. The bird is a decidedly bad bird, and not at all fit to take the place of domestic hen in a decent

farmyard. In plain English, Johnny, you'll find some day, if you go over to often to Porchester Terrace, either

that you are going to marry the bird, or else that you are employing your cousin Toogood for you defence in

an action for breach of promise, brought against you by that venerable old bird, the bird's mamma.'

'If it's to be either, it will be the latter,' said Johnny, as he took up his hat to go away.

Mrs Arabin remained one day in town. Mr Toogood in spite of his asseveration that he would not budge from

Barchester till he had seen Mr Crawley through all his troubles, did run up to London as soon as the news

reached him that John Eames had returned. He came up and took Mrs Arabin's deposition, which he sent

down to Mr Walker. It might still be necessary, Mrs Arabin was told, that she should go into court, and there

state on oath that she had given the cheque to Mr Crawley; but Mr Walker was of the opinion that the

circumstances would enable the judge to call upon the grand jury not to find a true bill against Mr Crawley,

and that the whole affair, as far as Mr Crawley was concerned, would thus be brought to an end. Toogood

was still very anxious to place Dan Stringer in the dock, but Mr Walker declared that they would fail if they

made the attempt. Dan had been examined before the magistrates at Barchester, and having persisted in his

statement that he had heard nothing about Mr Crawley and the cheque. This he said in the teeth of the words

which had fallen from him unawares in the presence of Mr Toogood. But they could not punish him for a

lienot even for such a lie as that! He was not upon oath, and they could not make him responsible to the

law because he had held his tongue upon a matter as to which it was manifest to them all that he had known

the whole history during the entire period of Mr Crawley's persecution. They could only call upon him to

account for his possession of the cheque, and this he did by saying that it had been paid to him by Jem

Scuttle, who received all moneys appertaining to the hotel stables, and accounted for them once a week. Jem

Scuttle had simply told him that he had taken the cheque from Mr Soames, and Jem had since gone to New

Zealand. It was quite true that Jem's departure had followed suspiciously close upon the payment of the rent

to Mrs Arabin, and that Jem had been in close amity with Dan Stringer up to the moment of his departure.

That Dan Stringer had not become honestly possessed of the cheque, everybody knew; but, nevertheless, the

magistrates were of the opinion, Mr Walker coinciding with them, that there was no evidence against him

sufficient to secure a conviction. The story, however, of Mr Crawley's injuries was so well known in

Barchester, and the feeling against the man who had permitted him to be thus injured was so strong, that Dan

Stringer did not altogether escape without punishment. Some rough spirits in Barchester called one night at

'The Dragon of Wantly' and begged Mr Dan Stringer would be kind enough to come and take a walk with

them that evening; and when it was intimated to them that Dan Stringer had not just then any desire for

exercise, they requested to be allowed to go into the back parlour and make an evening with Dan Stringer in

that recess. There was a terrible row at 'The Dragon of Wantly' that night, and Dan with difficulty was

rescued by the police. On the following morning he was smuggled out of Barchester by an early train, and has

never more been seen in that city. Rumours of him, however, were soon heard, from which it appeared that he

had made himself acquainted with the casual ward of more than one workhouse in London. His cousin John

left the inn almost immediatelyas, indeed, he must have done had there been no question of Mr Soames's

Mrs Arabin remained in town one day, and would have remained longer, waiting for her husband, had not a

letter from her sister impressed upon her that it might be well that she should be with her father as soon as

possible. 'I don't mean to make you think that there is any immediate danger,' Mrs Grantly said, 'and, indeed,

we cannot say that he is ill; but it seems that the extremity of old age has come upon him almost suddenly,

and that he is as weak as a child. His only delight is with children, especially with Posy, whose gravity in her

management of him is wonderful. He has not left his room now for more than a week, and he eats very little.

It may be that he will live for years; but I should be deceiving you if I did not let you know that both the

archdeacon and I think that the time of his departure from us is near at hand.' After reading this letter, Mrs

Arabin could not wait in town for her husband, even though he was expected in two days and though she had

been told that her presence in Barchester was not immediately required on behalf of Mr Crawley.

But during that one day she kept her promise to John Eames by going to Lily Dale. Mrs Arabin had become

very fond of Johnny, and felt that he deserved the prize which he had been so long trying to win. The reader,

perhaps, may not agree with Mrs Arabin. The reader, who may have caught a closer insight into Johnny's

character than Mrs Arabin had obtained, may, perhaps, think that a young man who could amuse himself with

Miss Demolines was unworthy of Lily Dale. If so, I may declare for myself that I and the reader are in accord

about John Eames. It is hard to measure worth and worthlessness in such matters, as there is no standard for

such measurement. My old friend John as certainly no herowas very unheroic in many phases of his life;

but then, if all the girls are to wait for heroes, I fear that the difficulties in the way of matrimonial

arrangements, great as they are at present, will be very seriously enhanced. Johnny was not ecstatic, nor

heroic, nor transcendental, nor very beautiful in his manliness; he was not a man to break his heart for love or

to have his story written in epic; but he was an affectionate, kindly, honest young man; and I think most girls

might have done worse than take him. Whether he was wise to ask assistance in his lovemaking so often as

Mrs Arabin was intimately acquainted with Mrs Thorne, and therefore there was nothing odd in her going to

Mrs Thorne's house. Mrs Thorne was very glad to see her, and told her all the Barsetshire newsmuch more

than Mrs Arabin would have learned in a week at the deanery; for Mrs Thorne had a marvellous gift of

picking up news. She had already heard the whole story of Mr Soames's cheque, and expressed her

conviction that the least that could be done in amends to Mr Crawley was to make him a bishop. 'And you see

'It is just as good. Now that Mrs Proudie has gone, I don't suppose the bishop will account for much. I can

assure you, Mrs Arabin, I felt that poor woman's death so much! She used to regard me as one of the

staunchest of the Proudieites! She once whispered to me such a delightfully wicked story about the dean and

the archdeacon. When I told her that they were my particular friends, she put on a look of horror. But I don't

think she believed me.' Then Emily Dunstable entered the room, and with her came Lily Dale. Mrs Arabin

had never before seen Lily, and course they were introduced. 'I am sorry to say that Miss Dale is going home

to Allington tomorrow,' said Emily. 'But she is coming to Chaldicotes in May,' said Mrs Thorne. 'Of course,

Mrs Arabin, you know what gala doings we are going to have in May?' Then there were various civil little

speeches made on each side, and Mrs Arabin expressed a wish that she might meet Miss Dale in Barsetshire.

'I particularly wish to say a word to Miss Dalehere today, if she will allow me,' said Mrs Arabin.

'I'm sure she willtwenty words; won't you, Lily?' said Mrs Thorne, preparing to leave the room. Then Mrs

Arabin apologised, and Mrs Thorne, bustling up, said that it did not signify, and Lily, remaining quite still on

the sofa, wondered what it was all aboutand in two minutes Lily and Mrs Arabin were alone together. Lily

had just time to surmised that Mrs Arabin's visit must have some reference to Mr Crosbieremembering that

Crosbie had married his wife out of Barsetshire, and forgetting altogether that Mrs Arabin had been just

'I believe you knew, before Mr Eames started, that he was going to Italy to find me and my husband?' said

Mrs Arabin. Then Lily put Mr Crosbie altogether out of her head, and became aware that he was not to be the

subject of the coming conversation. She was almost sorry that it was not so. There was no doubt in her mind

as to what she would have said to anyone who might have taken up Crosbie's cause. On that matter she could

now have given a very decisive answer in a few words. But on that other matter she was much more in doubt.

She remembered, however, every word of the note she had received from M D. She remembered also the

words of John's note to that young woman. And her heart was still hard against him. 'Yes,' she said; 'Mr

Eames came here one night and told us why he was going. I was very glad that he was going, because I

'You know, of course, how successful he has been? It was I who gave the cheque to Mr Crawley.'

'Yes; or rather to plead for him. You will not, I hope, be angry with him because he has told me much of his

'Oh, no,' said Lily, smiling. 'How could he have chosen a better friend in whom to trust?'

'He could certainly have chosen none who would take his part more sincerely. He is so good and amiable! He

is so pleasant in his ways, and so fitted to make a woman happy! And then, Miss Dale, he is also so devoted!'

'Unless he flatters himself, there is no one belonging to you who would not wish that he should be nearer and

'It may be so. I do not say that it is not so. Mamma and my uncle are both fond of him.'

'Ought it not? It seems to me that I could never have brought myself to marry anyone whom my friends had

'But is it not a recommendation to a man that has been so successful with your friends as to make them all

feel that you might trust yourself to him with perfect safety?' To this Lily made no answer, and Mrs Arabin

went on to plead her friend's cause with all the eloquence she could use, insisting on all his virtues, his good

temper, his kindness, his constancyand not forgetting the fact that the world was inclined to use him very

well. Still Lily made no answer. She had promised Mrs Arabin that she would not regard her interference as

impertinent, and therefore she refrained from any word that might seem to show offence. Nor did she feel

offence. It was something gained by John Eames in Lily's estimation that he should have such a friend as Mrs

Arabin to take an interest in his welfare. But there was a selfdependence, perhaps one may call it an

obstinacy about Lily Dale, which made her determined that she would not be driven hither or thither by any

pressure from without. Why had John Eames, at the very moment when he should have been doing his best to

drive from her breast the memory of past follieswhen he would have striven to do so had he really been

earnest in his suitwhy at such a moment had he allowed himself to correspond in terms of affection with

such a woman as M D? While Mrs Arabin was pleading for John Eames, Lily was repeating to herself certain

words which John had written to that woman'Ever and always yours unalterably'. Such were not the exact

words, but such was the form in which Lily, dishonestly, chose to repeat them to herself. And why was it so

with her? In the old days she would have forgiven Crosbie any offence at a word or a lookany possible

letter to any M D, let her have been ever so abominable! Nayhad she not even forgiven him the offence of

deserting herself altogether on behalf of a woman as detestable as could be any M D of Johnny's choosinga

woman whose only recommendation had been her title? And yet she would not forgive John Eames, though

the evidence against him was of so flimsy a naturebut rather strove to turn the flimsiness of that evidence

into strength! Why was it so? Unheroic as he might be, John Eames was surely a better man and a bigger man

that Adolphus Crosbie. It was simply this: she had fallen in love with the one, and had never fallen in love

with the other! She had fallen in love with the one man, though in her simple way she had made a struggle

against such feeling; and she had not come to love the other man, though she had told herself that it would be

well that she should do so if it were possible. Again and again she had half declared to herself that she would

take him as her husband and leave the love to come afterwards; but when the moment came for doing so, she

'Yours ever and unalterably, J E,' said Lily to herself. 'You do not doubt his affection?' continued Mrs Arabin.

'Then I think you wrong him. And the reason why I have ventured to come to you is that you may know the

impression which he has made upon one who was but the other day a stranger to him. I am sure that he loves

'And how am I to become his wife unless I love him well enough myself? Mrs Arabin, I have made up my

mind about it. I shall never become any man's wife. Mamma and I are all in all together, and we shall remain

together.' And as soon as these words were out of her mouth, she hated herself for having spoken them. There

was a maudlin, missish, nambypamby sentimentality about them which disgusted her. She specially desired

to be straightforward, resolute of purpose, honestspoken, and free from all touch of affectation. And yet she

had excused herself from marrying John Eames after the fashion of a sick schoolgirl. 'It is not good talking

'Oh, yes; that is if he likes to come today, or early tomorrow. I go home tomorrow. I cannot refuse him,

because he is such an old friendalmost like a brother. But it is of no use, Mrs Arabin.' Then Mrs Arabin

kissed her and left her, telling her that Mr Eames would come to her that afternoon at halfpast five. Lily

'Won't you ride with us for the last time?' said Emily Dunstable when Lily gave notice that she would not

'You'll never have another opportunity of riding with Emily Dunstable,' said the bride elect; 'at least I hope

'Even under those circumstances I must refuse, though I would give a guinea to be with you. John Eames is

'I have thought of it. I have thought of nothing else. I am tired of thinking of it. It is no good to think of

'I have someone,' said Lily, thinking of her mother, but not caring to descend to the mawkish weakness of

'Yes; but someone who will always be with you, to do everything for you; to be your very own.'

'It is all very well for you,' said Lily, 'and I think that Bernard is the luckiest fellow in the world; but it will

not do for me. I know in what college I'll take my degree, and I wish they'd let me write the letters after my

'O M, for Old Maid. I don't see why it shouldn't be as good as BA for Bachelor of Arts. It would mean a great

When Mrs Arabin saw Johnny in the middle of the day, she could hardly give him much encouragement. And

yet she felt by no means sure that he might not succeed even yet. Lily had been very positive in her answers,

and yet there had been something either in her words or in the tone of her voice, which had made Mrs Arabin

feel that even Lily was not quite sure of herself. There was still room for relenting. Nothing, however, had

been said which could justify her in bidding John Eames simply to 'go and win'. 'I think he is light of heart,'

Lily had said. Those were the words which, of all that had been spoken, most impressed themselves on Mrs

Arabin's memory. She would not repeat them to her friend, but she would graft upon them such advice as she

And this she did, telling him that she thought perhaps Lily doubted his actual earnestness. 'I would marry her

this moment,' said Johnny. But that was not enough, as Mrs Arabin knew, to prove his earnestness. Many

men, fickle as weathercocks, are ready to marry at the momentare ready to marry at the moment, because

they are fickle, and think so little about it. 'But she hears, perhaps, of your liking other people,' said Mrs

Arabin. 'I don't care a straw for any other person,' said Johnny. 'I wonder whether if I was to shut myself up in

a cage for six months, it would do any good?' 'If she had the keeping of the cage, perhaps it might,' said Mrs

Arabin. She had nothing more to say on that subject, but to tell him that Miss Dale would expect him that

afternoon at halfpast five. 'I told her that you would come to wish her goodbye, and she promised to see

Between him and Mrs Arabin, the parting was very affectionate. She told him how thankful she was for the

kindness in coming to her, and how grateful she would ever beand the dean alsofor his attention to her.

'Remember, Mr Eames, that you will always be most welcome at the Deanery of Barchester. And I do hope

He left her at about two, and went to Mr Toogood's office in Bedford Row. He found his uncle, and the two

went out to lunch together in Holborn. Between them there was no word said about Lily Dale, and John was

glad to have some other subject in his mind for half an hour. Toogood was full of his triumph about Mr

Crawley and of his successes in Barsetshire. He gave John a long account of his visit to Plumstead, and

expressed his opinion that if all clergymen were like the archdeacon there would not be much room for

Dissenters. 'I've seen a good many parsons in my time,' said Toogood; 'but I don't think I ever saw such a one

as him. You know he is a clergyman somehow, and he never lets you forget it; but that's about all. Most of

'em are never contented without choking you with their white cravats all the time you're with 'em. As for

Crawley himself,' Mr Toogood continued, 'he's not like anybody that ever was born, saint or sinner, parson or

layman. I never heard of such a man in all my experience. Though he knew where he got the cheque as well I

know it now, he wouldn't say so, because the dean had said it wasn't so. Somebody ought to write a book

about itindeed they ought.' Then he told the whole story of Dan Stringer, and how he had found Dan out,

looking at the tope of Dan's hat through the little aperture in the wall of the inn parlour. 'When I saw the

twitch in his hand, John, I knew he had handled the cheque himself. I don't mean to say that I'm sharper than

another man, and I don't think so; but I do mean to say that when you are in any difficulty of that sort, you

ought to go to a lawyer. It's his business, and a man does what is his business with patience and perseverance.

It's a pity, though, that the scoundrel should get off.' Then Eames gave his uncle an account of his Italian trip,

to and fro, and was congratulated also upon his success. John's great triumph lay in the fact that he had been

only two nights in bed, and that he would not have so far condescended on those occasions but for the

feminine weakness of his fellowtraveller. 'We shan't forget it all in a hurryshall we, John?' said Mr

Toogood, in a pleasant voice, as they parted at the door of the luncheonhouse in Holborn. Toogood was

returning to his office, and John Eames was to prepare himself for his last attempt.

He went back to his lodgings, intending at first to change his dress to make himself smarter for the work

before himbut after standing for a moment or two leaning on the chest of drawers in his bedroom, he gave

up this idea. 'After all that's come and gone,' he said to himself, 'if I cannot win her as I am now, I cannot win

her at all.' And then he swore to himself a solemn oath, resolving that he would repeat the purport of it to Lily

herselfthat this should be the last attempt. 'What's the use of it? Everybody ridicules me. And I am

ridiculous. I am an ass. It's all very well wanting to be the prime minister; but if you can't be prime minister,

you must do without being prime minister.' Then he attempted to sing the old song'Shall I, sighing in

despair, die because a woman's fair? If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?' But he did care,

and he told himself that the song did him no good. As it was not time for him as yet to go to Lily, he threw

himself on the sofa, and strove to read a book. Then all the weary nights of his journey prevailed over him,

When he woke it wanted quarter to six. He sprang up, and rushing out, jumped into a cab. 'Berkeley

Squareas hard as you can go,' he said. 'Number .' He thought of Rosalind, and her counsels to lovers as

to the keeping of time, and reflected that in such an emergency as this, he might really have ruined himself by

that unfortunate slumber. When he got to Mrs Thorne's door he knocked hurriedly, and bustled up to the

drawingroom as though everything depended on his saving a minute. 'I'm afraid I'm ever so much behind

'It does not matter in the least,' said Lily. 'As Mrs Arabin said that perhaps you might call, I would not be out

of the way. I suppose that Sir Raffle was keeping you and that you wouldn't come.'

'Do not laugh at me, Lilytoday. I had been travelling a good deal, and I suppose I was tired.'

'I won't laugh at you,' she said, and her eyes became full of tearsshe did not know why. But there they

were, and she was ashamed to put up her handkerchief, and she could not bring herself to turn away her face,

'What a paladin you have been, John, rushing all about Europe on your friend's behalf!'

'And such a successful paladin too! Why am I not to talk about it? I am going home tomorrow, and I mean to

talk about nothing else for a week. I am so very, very, glad that you have saved your cousin.' Then she did put

up her handkerchief, making believe that her tears had been due to Mr Crawley. But John Eames knew better

'Lily,' he said, 'I've come for the last time. It sounds as though I meant to threaten you; but you won't take it in

that way. I think you will know what I mean. I have come for the last timeto ask you to be my wife.' She

got up to greet him when he entered, and they were both still standing. She did not answer him at once, but

turning away from him walked towards the window. 'You knew why I was coming today, Lily?'

'Mrs Arabin told me. I could not be away when you were coming, but perhaps it would have been better.'

'It is so? Must it be so? Must you say that to me, Lily? Think of it for a moment, dear.'

'One word from you, yes or no, spoken is to be everything to me for always. Lily, cannot you say yes?' She

did not answer him, but walked further away from him to another window. 'Try to say yes. Look round at me

with one look that may only half mean it; that may tell me that it shall not positively be no for ever.' I think

that she almost tried to turn her face to him; but be that as it may, she kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the

windowpane. 'Lily,' he said, 'it is not that you are hardheartedperhaps not altogether that you do not like

me. I think that you believe things against me that are not true.' As she said this she moved her foot angrily

upon the carpet. She had almost forgotten M D, but now he had reminded her of the note. She assured herself

that she had never believed anything against him except on evidence that was incontrovertible. But she was

not going to speak to him on such a matter as that! It would not become her to accuse him. 'Mrs Arabin tells

Upon hearing this she flashed round upon him almost angrily. 'I never said that.'

'The best sign of earnestness a man can give generally in such a matter, is to show how ready he is to be

'At the risk of making you angry I will go on, Lily. Of course when you tell me that you will have nothing to

say to me, I try to amuse myself''Yes; by writing loveletters to M D,' Lily said to herself'What is a

poor fellow to do? I tell you fairly that when I leave you I swear to myself that I make love to the first girl I

can see who will listen to meto twenty, if twenty will let me. I feel I have failed, and it is so I punish

myself for my failure.' There was something in this which softened her brow, though she did not intend that it

should be so; and she turned away again, that he might not see that her brow was softened. 'But, Lily, the

hope ever comes back again, and then neither the one nor the twenty are of availeven to punish me. When

I look forward and see what it might be if you were with me, how green it all looks and how lovely, in spite

of all the vows I have made, I cannot help coming back again.' She was now again near the window, and he

had not followed her. As she neither turned towards him nor answered him, he moved from the table near

which he was standing on to the rug before the fire, and leaned with both his elbows on the mantelpiece. He

could still watch her in the mirror above the fireplace, and could see that she was still seeming to gaze out

upon the street. And had he not moved her? I think he had so far moved her now, that she had ceased to think

of the woman who had written to her that she had ceased to reject him in her heart on the score of such

levities as that! If there were M Ds, like sunken rocks, in his course, whose fault was it? He was ready

enough to steer his bark into the tranquil blue waters if only she would aid him. I think that all his sins on this

score were at this moment forgiven him. He had told her now what to him would be green and beautiful, and

she did not find herself able to disbelieve him. She had banished M D out of her mind, but in doing so she

admitted other reminiscences into it. And thenwas she in a moment to be talked out of the resolution of

years; and was she to give up herself, not because she loved, but because the man who talked to her talked so

well that he deserved a reward? Was she now to be as light, as foolish, as easy, as in those former days from

which she had learned her wisdom? A picture of green lovely things could be delicious to her eyes as to his;

but even for such a picture as that the price might be too dear! Of all living menof all men living in their

present livesshe loved best this man who was now waiting for some word of answer to his words, and she

did love him dearly; she would have tended him if sick, have supplied him if in want; have mourned for him

if dead, with the bitter grief of true affection;but she could not say to herself that he should be her lord and

master, the head of her house, the owner of herself, the ruler of her life. The shipwreck to which she had once

come, and the fierce regrets which had thence arisen, had forced her to think too much of these things. 'Lily,'

he said, still facing towards the mirror, 'will you not come to me and speak to me?' She turned round, and

stood a moment looking at him, and then, having again resolved that it could not be as he wished, she drew

near to him. 'Certainly I will speak to you, John. Here I am.' And she came close to him.

'I cannot tell, dear. It is so. If you take a young tree and split it, it still lives, perhaps. But it isn't a tree. It is

'So I will, if I can serve you to give standing ground to such a fragment in some corner of your garden. But I

will not have myself planted out in the middle, for people to look at. What there is left would die soon.' He

still held her hands, and she did not attempt to draw them away. 'John,' she said, 'next to mamma, I love you

better than all the world. Indeed I do. I can't be your wife, but you need never be afraid that I shall be more to

'That will not serve me,' he said, grasping both her hands till he almost hurt them, but not knowing that he did

'It is all the good that I can do you. Indeed I can do youcan do no one any good. The trees that the storms

'Friendship! I hate the word. I hear someone's step, and I had better leave you. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye, John. Be kinder than that to me as you are going.' He turned back for a moment, took her hand,

and held it tight against his heart, and then he left her. In the hall he met Mrs Thorne, but, as she said

afterwards, he had been too much knocked about to be able to throw a word to a dog.

To Mrs Thorne Lily said hardly a word about John Eames, and when her cousin Bernard questioned her about

him she was dumb. And in these days she could assume a manner, and express herself with her eyes as well

as with her voice, after a fashion, which was apt to silence unwelcome questions, even though they were

intimate with her as was her cousin Bernard. She had described her feelings more plainly to her lover than

she had ever done to anyoneeven to her mother; and having done so she meant to be silent on that subject

for evermore. But of her settled purpose, she did say some word to Emily Dunstable that night. 'I do feel,' she

'And have you settled it, as you call it, in opposition to the wishes of all your friends?'

'That is true; and yet I have settled it rightly, and I would not for worlds have it unsettled again. There are

matters on which friends should not have wishes, or at any rate should not express them.'

'No; not to you. I was thinking about mamma, and Bell, and my uncle, and Bernard, who all seem to think

that I am to be looked upon as a regular castaway because I am not likely to have a husband of my own. Of

course you, in your position, must think a girl a castaway who isn't going to be married?'

'And I think a girl who isn't going to be married has the best of it;that's all. But I feel that the thing is done

now, and I am contented. For the last six or eight months there has come up, I know not how, a state of doubt

which as made me so wretched that I have done literally nothing. I haven't been able to finish old Mrs Heard's

tippet, literally because people would talk to me about that dearest of all dear fellows, John Eames. And yet

'I can understand myself. I love him so wellwith that intimate, close, familiar affectionthat I could wash

his clothes for him tomorrow, out of pure personal regard, and think it no shame. He could not ask me to do a

single thing for himexcept one thingthat I would refuse. And I'll go further. I would sooner marry him

than any other man I ever saw, or, as I believe, that I ever shall see. And yet I am glad that it is settled.'

On the next day Lily Dale went down to the Small House of Allington, and so she passes out of sight. I can

only ask the reader to believe that she was in earnest, and express my opinion, in this last word, that I shall

In these days Mr Harding was keeping his bed at the deanery, and most of those who saw him declared that

he would never again leave it. The archdeacon had been slow to believe so, because he had still found his

fatherinlaw able to talk to him; not indeed with energybut then Mr Harding had never been energetic on

ordinary mattersbut with the same soft cordial interest in things which had ever been customary with him.

He had latterly been much interested about Mr Crawley, and would make both the archdeacon and Mrs

Grantly tell him all that they had heard, and what they thought of the case. This of course had been before the

allimportant news had been received from Mrs Arabin. Mr Harding was very anxious. 'Firstly,' he said, 'for

the welfare of the poor man, of whom I cannot bring myself to think ill; and then for the honour of the cloth

in Barchester.' 'We are as liable to have black sheep here as anywhere,' the archdeacon had replied. 'But, my

dear, I do not think the sheep is black; and we never have had black sheep in Barchester.' 'Haven't we,

though?' said the archdeacon, thinking, however, of sheep who were black of a different kind of blackness

from this which was now attributed to Mr Crawleyof a blackness which was not absolute blackness to Mr

Harding's milder eyes. The archdeacon, when he heard his fatherinlaw talk after this fashion, expressed his

opinion that he might live for years. He was just the man to linger on, living in bedas indeed he had

lingered all his life out of bed. But the doctor who attended him thought otherwise, as did also Mrs Grantly,

and as did Mrs Baxter, and as also did Posy. 'Grandpa won't get up any more, will he?' Posy said to Mrs

Baxter. 'I hope he will, my dear; and that very soon.' 'I don't think he will,' said Posy, 'because he said he

would never see the big fiddle again.' 'That comes of being a little melancholy like, my dear,' said Mrs

Mrs Grantly at this time went into Barchester almost every day, and the archdeacon, who was very often in

the city, never went there without passing halfanhour with the old man. These two clergymen, essentially

different in their characters and in every detail of conduct, had been so much thrown together by

circumstances that the life of each almost became part of the life of the other. Although the fact of Mr

Harding's residence at the deanery had of late years thrown him oftener into the society of the dean than that

of his other soninlaw, yet his intimacy with the archdeacon had been so much earlier, and his memories of

the archdeacon were so much clearer, that he depended almost more upon the rector of Plumstead, who was

absent, than he did upon the dean, whom he customarily saw every day. It was not so with the daughters. His

Nelly, as he used to call her, had ever been his favourite, and the circumstances of their joint lives had ever

been such, that they had never been further separated than from one street of Barchester to anotherand that

only for a very short period of the married life of Mrs Arabin's first husband. For all that was soft and tender

thereforewhich with Mr Harding was all in the world that was charming to himhe looked to his

youngest daughter; but for authority and guidance and wisdom, and for information as to what was going on

in the world, he had still turned to his soninlaw the archdeaconas he had done for almost forty years.

For so long had the archdeacon been potent as a clergyman in the diocese, and throughout the whole duration

of such potency his word had been law to Mr Harding in most of the affairs of lifea law generally to be

obeyed, and if sometimes broken, still a law. And now, when all was so nearly over, he would become

unhappy if the archdeacon's visits were far between. Dr Grantly, when he found that this was so, would not

'He puts me so much in mind of my father,' the archdeacon said to his wife one day.

'He is not so old as your father was when he died, by many years,' said Mrs Grantly, 'and I think one sees that

'Yes; and therefore I say that he may still live for years. My father, when he took to his bed at last, was

manifestly near his death. The wonder with him was that he continued to live so long. Do you not remember

'And in that way there is a great difference. My father, who was physically a much stronger man, did not

succumb so easily. But the likeness is in their characters. There is the same mild sweetness, becoming milder

and sweeter as they increased in agea sweetness that never could believe much evil, but that could believe

less, and still less, as the weakness of age came upon them. No amount of evidence would induce your father

to think that Mr Crawley stole that money.' This was said of course before the telegram had come from

'As far as that goes, I agree with him,' said Mrs Grantly, who had her own reasons for choosing to believe Mr

Crawley to be innocent. 'If your son, my dear, is to marry the man's daughter, it will be as well that you

'I'm sick of Mr Crawley, and I'm sorry I spoke of him,' said the archdeacon. 'But look at Mrs Proudie. You'll

'She certainly was not,' said Mrs Grantly, who was anxious to encourage her husband, if she could do so

'And she was at one time violently insolent to your father. And even the bishop thought to trample on him.

Do you remember the bishop's preaching against your father's chanting? If I ever forget it!' And the

'Paltry little fool! It will be long enough before such a chaunt as that is heard in and English cathedral again.'

Then Mrs Grantly got up and kissed her husband, but he, somewhat negligent of the kiss, went on with his

speech. 'But your father remembers nothing of it, and if there was a single human being who shed a tear in

Barchester for that woman, I believe it was your father. And it was the same with mine. It came to that at last,

that I could not bear to speak to him of any shortcomings as to one of his own clergymen. I might as well

have pricked him with a penknife. And yet they say men become heartless and unfeeling as they grow old.'

'Yes; the heartless and unfeeling do. As the bodily strength fails and the power of control becomes lessened,

the natural aptitude of the man pronounces itself more clearly. I take it that that is it. Had Mrs Proudie lived

to be and hundred and fifty, she would have spoken spiteful lies on her deathbed.' Then Mrs Grantly told

herself that her husband, should he live to be hundred and fifty, would still be expressing his horror of Mrs

As soon as the letter from Mrs Arabin had reached Plumstead, the archdeacon and his wife arranged that they

would both go together to the deanery. There were the double tidings to be toldthose of Mr Crawley's

assured innocence, and those also of Mrs Arabin's instant return. And as they went together various ideas

were passing through their minds in reference to the marriage of their son with Grace Crawley. They were

both now reconciled to it. Mrs Grantly had long ceased to feel any opposition to it, even though she had not

seen Grace; and the archdeacon was prepared to give way. Had he not promised that in a certain case he

would give way, and had not that case come to pass? He had no wish to go back from his word. But he had a

difficulty in thisthat he liked to make all the affairs of his life matter for enjoyment, almost for triumph;

but how was he to be triumphant over this marriage, or how even was he to enjoy it, seeing that he had

opposed it so bitterly? Those posters, though they were now pulled down, had been up on a barn ends and

'It is a pity something could not be done for him after all he has undergone. How on earth can he be expected

to live there with a wife and family, and no private means?' To this the archdeacon made no answer. Mrs

Grantly had spoken almost immediately upon their quitting Plumstead, and the silence was continued till the

carriage had entered the suburbs of the city. Then Mrs Grantly spoke again, asking a question, with some

internal trepidation which, however, she managed to hide from her husband. 'When poor papa does go, what

shall you do about St Ewold's?' Now, St Ewold's was a rural parish lying about two miles out of Barchester,

the living of which was in the gift of the archdeacon, and to which the archdeacon had presented to his

fatherinlaw, under certain circumstances, which need not be repeated in this last chronicle of Barsetshire.

Have they not been written in other chronicles? 'When poor papa does go, what will you do about St

Ewold's?' said Mrs Grantly, trembling inwardly. A word too much might, as she well knew, settle the

question against Mr Crawley for ever. But were she to postpone the word till too late, the question would be

'I haven't thought about it,' he said sharply. 'I don't like thinking of such things while the incumbent is still

living.' Oh, archdeacon, archdeacon! Unless that other chronicle be a false chronicle, how hast thou forgotten

thyself and thy past life! 'Particularly not, when that incumbent is your father,' said the archdeacon. Mrs

Grantly said nothing more about St Ewold's. She would have said as much as she had intended to say if she

had succeeded in making the archdeacon understand that St Ewold's would be a very nice refuge for Mr

They learned as they entered the deanery that Mrs Baxter had already heard of Mrs Arabin's return. 'Oh yes,

ma'am. Mr Harding got a letter hisself, and I got anotherseparate; both from Venice, ma'am. But when

master come nobody seems to know.' Mrs Baxter knew that the dean had gone to Jerusalem, and was inclined

to think that from such distant bournes there was not return to any traveller. The East is always further than

the West in the estimation of the Mrs Baxters of the world. Had the dean gone to Canada, she would have

thought that he might come back tomorrow. But still there was the news to be told of Mr Crawley, and there

was also joy to be expressed at the sudden coming back of the muchwishedfor mistress of the deanery.

'Too many! Oh dear no. I like to have people by me; and as for voices and noise, and all that, the more the

better. But I am weak. I'm weak in my legs. I don't think I shall ever stand again.'

'It is not good news that Nelly will be home this week? You can't understand what a joy it is to me. I used to

think sometimes, at night, that I should never see her again. That she would come back in time was all I have

wished for.' He was lying on his back, and as he spoke he pressed his withered hands together above the

bedclothes. They could not begin immediately to tell him of Mr Crawley, but as soon as his mind had turned

itself away from the thoughts of his absent daughter, Mrs Grantly again reverted to the news.'

'As far as he is concerned, everything is found out,' said Mrs Grantly. 'Eleanor gave him the cheque herself.'

'Yes, papa. The dean meant her to give him fifty pounds. But it seems she got to be soft of heart and made it

seventy. She had the cheque by her, and put it into the envelope with the notes.'

'Some of Stringer's people seem to have stolen the cheque from Mr Soames,' said the archdeacon.

'I had hoped not, Susan,' said Mr Harding. Both the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly knew that it was useless to

Then they came to discuss Mr Crawley's present position, and Mr Harding ventured to ask a question or two

as to Grace's chance of marriage. He did not often interfere in the family arrangements of his soninlaw and

never did so when those family arrangements were concerned with high matters. He had hardly opened his

mouth in reference to the marriage of that august lady who was now the Marchioness of Hartletop. And of the

Lady Anne, the wife of the Rev Charles Grantly, who was always prodigiously civil to him, speaking to him

very loud, as though he were deaf because he was old, and bringing cheap presents from London of which he

did not take much heedof her he rarely said a word, or of her children, to either of his daughters. But now

his grandson, Henry Grantly, was going to marry a girl of whom he felt that he might speak without

'Not a doubt about it,' said Mrs Grantly. Mr Harding looked at his soninlaw, but his soninlaw said

nothing. The archdeacon did not even frownbut only moved a little uneasily in his chair.

'I have not seen yet,' said Mrs Grantly; 'but the archdeacon declares that she is all the graces rolled into one.'

'But he is really in love with her, papa,' said Mrs Grantly. 'He confessed to me that he gave her a kiss, and he

'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

'And if she comesand of course she willI'll lose no time in bringing her over to you. Nelly must see her,

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

Three days after this Mrs Arabin reached the deanery, and the joy at her return was very great. 'My dear, I

'Nay, my dear; do not say that. Would it make my 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

'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

'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 hereand that

not 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, Nellynot till I am

gone; and then not beyond measure. Why should anyone weep for those who go away full of yearsand full

On the day but one following the dean 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 told me that he was in actual trouble; but I had

'As far as I can learn, they never really suspected him until after your answer had come. They had been quite

'What he must have endured it is impossible to conceive. I shall go out to him tomorrow.'

'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.'

'Oh, yes; he can have it again. For the matter of that, I need simply to give him back his letter. Only he is so

oddso unlike other people! And he has tried to live there, and has failed; and is now in debt. I wonder

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 must have done so.' 'I am quite sure I could 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

On the following morning the dean rode over to Hogglestock, and as he drew near to the house of his old

friend, his spirits flaggedfor 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 altogethernot all of pocket. He would

willingly have picked the Crawleys out from the pecuniary mud into which they were for 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 circumstancesand 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 endowmentsdeclaring 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 Crawleyterribly painfuland 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 hand 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 in her bed while a clergyman was doing duty almost under her nose, who was guilty of the double

offence of being accused of 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 had 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.' Those words Henry Grantly made the dean understand that there might yet be a ray of

'There is papa,' said Jane, as they got to the gate. Then they waited for a few minutes till Mr Crawley came

'Crawley,' said the dean, 'I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you, and how rejoiced I am that this

'Verily the news came in time, Arabin,' said the other, 'but it was a narrow pincha narrow pinch. Will you

At this time Grace had returned 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 frequentthough 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 liberallydisposed friend that

this would certainly make no difference, she shook her head woefully. 'I don't know why we are to have

Dissenteres 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, 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, softhearted 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

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 friendswith the consent of course of her motherduring 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 resolvedand having made her mother so understandthat 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 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

Mrs Robarts understood the feeling by which Grace was hurried away. 'Do you know why she is so

'Should Major Grantly renew his offer to her she is under a pledge to accept him now.'

'Just so. But she prefers that he should come for her to her own housebecause of the poverty. If he chooses

to seek her there, I don't think she will make much difficulty.' Lady Lufton demurred at 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 lovemaking 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 the old Lady Lufton into sheep and goatsvery white sheep and very black

goatsand 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 squeaka 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

'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

'She feels that what she did was awkward and foolish. She ought never to have paid the cheque away in such

'It was givennot paid,' said Crawley; and as he spoke something of the black cloud came back on his face.

'And I am well aware 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

'For myself, it is, of course, impossible that I should ever visit any scenes except those to which my

immediate work may call menever in this world. The new Jerusalem is still within my reachif 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 talk so muchI see it in the

papers and reviews which the ladies at Framley are so good as to send to my wifedo 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

'I fancy that I should knowshould 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 menas He saw themright across the brook Cedron,

'In the privilege of seeing those places I can almost envy a man hismoney.' The last words he uttered after

a pause. He had been about to say that underneath 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

As soon as he was in 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 the husband. 'Of course, it has been our

'Oh, no,' said Mrs Crawley, 'how can you have been at 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

'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

'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 the parishpresuming your patronage to be unlimited and not to reach you in

rotation onlyyet the bishop may demand to institute again, and must so demand, unless he pleases to

'Of course he will 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 on the last Sunday one Mr Snapper, his chaplain.'

'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 Mr Thumble was here.'

'We all know Thumble, too,' said the dean; 'or, at least, we 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

'Nay, my dear, nay;do not allow yourself the use of language so strong against a brother. Our flesh at that

'He is a horrible man,' said Jane, almost in a whisper; but the words were distinctly audible to the dean.

'That is where I fear we differ. I think they must comeor some others in their placetill 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, believingthen as nowthat 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 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

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, andas Mr Crawley seemed to think was essentially

necessaryhad 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 with respect 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 momentin vain

also to wait for a proper opening for that which he had to sayrushed 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

'We should like of all things,' said the dean, with perhaps more of good nature than of truth. 'Of course you

'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

'Assuredly they cannot. But it was not that I meant. It may not be that I and mine should transfer ourselves to

'The reasons are many, and on the face of things. The reason, perhaps, the most on the face of it is to be found

in my wife's gown, and in my coat.' This Mr Crawley said very gravely, looking neither to the right nor to the

left nor at the face of any of them, nor at his own garment, nor hers, but straight before him; and when he had

so spoken he said not a word further not going on to dilate on his poverty as the dean expected that he

'And why not now as they always do, and always must till the power of tailors shall have waned, and the

daughters of Eve shall toil and spin no more? Like to like is true, and should be held to be true, of all

societies and of all compacts for cooperation and mutual living. Here, where, if I may venture to say so, you

and I are like to like;for the new gloss of your coat;the dean, as it happened, had on at the moment a

very old coat, his oldest coat, selected perhaps with some view to this special visit'does not obtrude itself

in my household, as would be the threadbare texture of mine in yours;I can open my mouth to you and

converse with you at my ease; you are now to me that Frank Arabin who has so comforted me and so often

confuted me; whom I may perhaps on occasion have confutedand perhaps have comforted. But were I

sitting with you in your library in Barchester, my threadbare coat would be too much for me. I should be

silent, if not sullen. I should feel the weight of all my poverty, and the greater weight of all your wealth. For

'Papa does not mean it,' said Grace, coming up to him and standing close to him.

There was silence amongst them for a few moments, and then the master of the house shook

himselfliterally shook himself, till he had shaken off the cloud. He had taken Grace by the hand, and

thrusting out the other arm had got it round Jane's waist. 'When a man has girls, Arabin,' he said, 'as you have,

but not big girls yet like Grace here, of course he knows that they will fly away.'

Upon the whole the dean thought it the pleasantest visit he had ever made to Hogglestock, and when he got

home he told his wife that he believed that the accusation made against Mr Crawley had done him good. 'I

could not say a word in private to her,' he said, 'but I did promise that you would go over and see her. On the

very next day, Mrs Arabin went over, and I think that the visit was a comfort to Mrs Crawley.

John Eames had passed Mrs Thorne in the hall of her own house almost without noticing her as he took his

departure from Lily Dale. She had told him as plainly as words could speak that she could not bring herself to

be his wifeand he had believed her. He had sworn to himself that if he did not succeed he would never ask

again. 'It would be foolish and unmanly to do so,' he said to himself as he rushed along the street towards his

club. No! That romance was over. At last there had come an end to it! 'It has taken a good bit out of me,' he

said, arresting his steps suddenly that he might stand still and think of it all. 'By George, yes! A man doesn't

go through that kind of thing without losing some of the caloric. I couldn't do it again if an angel came in my

way.' he went to his club, and tried to be jolly. But as he walked home at night, and gave himself time to

think over what had taken place with deliberation, he stopped in the gloom of a deserted street and leaning

against the rails burst into tears. He had really loved her and she was never to be his. He had wanted

herand it is so painful a thing to miss what you want when you have done your very best to obtain it! To

struggle in vain always hurts the pride; but the wound made by the vain struggle for a woman is sorer than

any wound so made. He gnashed his teeth, and struck the railings with his stick; and then he hurried home,

swearing that he would never give another thought to Lily Dale. In the dead of the night, thinking of it still,

he asked himself whether it would not be a fine thing to wait another ten years, and then go to her again. In

such a way would he not make himself immortal as a lover beyond any Jacob or Leander?

The next day he went to his office and was very grave. When Sir Raffle complimented him on being back

before his time, he simply said that when he had accomplished that for which he had gone, he had, of course,

come back. Sir Raffle could not get a word out from him about Mr Crawley. He was very grave, and intent

upon his work. Indeed he was so serious that he quite afflicted Sir Rafflewhose mock activity felt itself to

be confounded by the official zeal of his private secretary. During the whole of that day, Johnny was

resolving that there could be no cure for his malady but hard work. He would not only work hard at the office

if he remained there, but he would take to heavy reading. He rather thought that he would go deep into Greek

and do a translation, or take up the exact sciences and make a name for himself in that way. But as he had

enough for the life of a secluded literary man without his salary, he rather thought he would give up his office

altogether. He had a mutton chop at home that evening, and spent his time in endeavouring to read out aloud

to himself certain passages from the Iliadfor he had bought a Homer as he returned from his office. At nine

o'clock he went, halfprice, to the Strand Theatre. How he met there his old friend Boulger and went

afterwards to 'The Cock' and had a supper need not here be told with more accurate detail.

On the evening of the next day he was bound by his appointment to go to Porchester Terrace. In the moments

of his enthusiasm about Homer he had declared to himself that he would never go near Miss Demolines

again. Why should he? All that kind of thing was nothing to him now. He would simply send her his

compliments and say that he was prevented by business from keeping his engagement. She, of course, would

go on writing to him for a time, but he would simply leave her letters unanswered, and the thing, of course,

would come to an end at last. He afterwards said something to Boulger about Miss Demolinesbut that was

during the jollity of their supperand he then declared that he would follow out that little game. 'I don't see

why a fellow isn't to amuse himself, eh, Boulger, old boy?' Boulger winked and grinned, and said some

amusements were dangerous. 'I don't think that there is any danger there,' said Johnny. 'I don't believe she is

thinking of that kind of thing herself;not with me at least. What she likes is the pretence of mystery; and as

it is amusing I don't see why a fellow shouldn't indulge her.' But that determination was pronounced after two

mutton chops at 'The Cock', between one and two o'clock in the morning. On the next day he was cooler and

wiser. Greek he thought might be tedious as he discovered that he would have to begin again from the very

alphabet. He would therefore abandon that idea. Greek was not the thing for him, but he would take up the

sanitary condition of the poor in London. A fellow could be of some use in that way. In the meantime he

would keep his appointment with Miss Demolines, simply because it was an appointment. A gentleman

He did keep his appointment with Miss Demolines, and was with her almost precisely at the hour she had

named. She received him with a mysterious tranquillity which almost perplexed him. He remembered,

however, that the way to enjoy the society of Miss Demolines was to take her in all her moods with perfect

seriousness, and was therefore very tranquil himself. On the present occasion she did not rise as she entered

the room, and hardly spoke as she tendered to him the tips of her fingers to be touched. As she said almost

nothing, he said nothing at all, but sank into a chair and stretched his legs out comfortably before him. It had

been always understood between them that she was to bear the burden of the conversation.

'Yes;if you do.' Then the page brought the tea, and John Eames amused himself by swallowing three slices

'Non for methanks,' said Madalina. 'I rarely eat after dinner, and not often much then. I fancy that I should

'A good dinner is a very good thing,' said John. And then there was again silence. He was aware that some

great secret was to be told to him this evening, but he was much too discreet to show any curiosity upon that

subject. He sipped his tea to the end, and then, having got up to put his cup down, stood on the rug with his

'Your remaining will make no difference in that respect. I don't suppose that I shall be in bed for the next four

'I am in no hurry,' said Johnny. Then he sat down again, stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable.

'Maria Clutterbuckas I must always call her; for I cannot bring myself to pronounce the name of that poor

'And what made him drink?' said Madalina with emphasis. 'Never mind. I decline altogether to speak of it.

Such a scene as I have had! I was driven at last to tell her what I thought of her. Anything so callous, so

heartless, so selfish, so stonecold, and so childish, I never saw before! That Maria was childish and selfish I

always knew;but I thought there was some hearta vestige of heart. I found today that there was

'That sort of thing is fatiguing, I daresay. I don't know whether we do not lose more than we gain by those

'I would rather die and go beneath the sod at once, than live without them,' said Madalina.

'It is there that the poor wretch is so deficient. She is thinking now, this moment, of nothing but her creature

Johnny thought of Lily Dale and paused before he answered. No; certainly he was not happy. But he was not

going to talk about his unhappiness with Miss Demolines! 'Of course I am;as jolly as a sandboy,' he said.

'Mr Eames,' said Madalina raising herself on her sofa, 'if you can not express yourself in language more

suitable to the occasion and to the scene than that, I think that you had better'

'Just so;though I should not have chosen myself to use words so abruptly discourteous.'

'What did I say:jolly as a sandboy? There is nothing wrong in that. What I meant was that I think that the

world is a very good sort of world, and that a man can get along in it very well if he minds his p's and q's.'

'Do they? Your knowledge of women goes as far as that, does it? Tell me fairly;do you think you know

anything about women?' Madalina as she asked the question, looked full into his face, and shook her locks

and smiled. When she shook her locks and smiled, there was a certain attraction about her of which John

Eames was fully sensible. She could throw a special brightness into her eyes, which, though it probably

betokened nothing beyond illnatured mischief, seemed to convey a promise of wit and intellect.

'I doubt whether you know anything. The pretty simplicity of your excellent Lily Dale has sufficed for you.'

'I do not mind about her in the least. But an insight into that sort of simplicity will not teach the character of a

real woman. You cannot learn the flavour of wines by sipping sherry and water. For myself I do not think that

I am simple. I own it fairly. If you must have simplicity, I cannot be to your taste.'

'I understand you, sir. And though what you say is not complimentary, I am willing to forgive that fault for its

truth. I don't consider myself to be always a partridge, I can assure you. I am as changeable as the moon.'

'I say nothing about that, sir. I leave you to find that out. It is a man's business to discover that for himself. If

'But if you do, you will perhaps have discovered that a woman may be as changeable as the moon, and yet as

true as the sun;that she may flit from flower to flower, quite unheeding while no passion exists, but that a

passion fixes her at once. Do you believe me?' Now she looked into his eyes again, but did not smile and did

'Oh, yes;that's true enough. And when they have a lot of children, then they become steady as milestones.'

She walked twice across the room without speaking. Then she came and stood opposite him, still without

speakingand then she walked about again. 'What could a woman better be, than a fingerpost, as you call

'Nothing better, of course;though a milestone to tell a fellow his distances, is very good.'

'John, shall I be fingerpost for you?.' She stood and looked at him for a moment or two, with her eyes full of

love, as though she were going to throw herself into his arms. And she would have done so, no doubt,

instantly, had he risen to his legs. As it was, after having gazed at him for the moment with her loveladen

He had felt that it was coming for the last quarter of an hourand he had felt also, that he was quite unable

to help himself. He did not believe that he should ever be reduced to marrying Miss Demolines, but he did

see plainly enough that he was getting into trouble; and yet, for his life, he could not help himself. The moth

who flutters round the light knows that he is being burned, and yet he cannot fly away from it. When

Madalina had begun to talk to him about woman in general, and then about herself, and had told him that

such a woman as herselfeven one so liable to the disturbance of violent emotionsmight yet be as true

and honest as the sun, he knew he ought to get up and make his escape. He did not exactly know how the

catastrophe would come, but he was quite sure that if he remained there he would be called in some way for a

declaration of his sentimentsand that the call would be one which all his wit would not enable him to

answer with any comfort. It was very well jesting about milestones, but every jest brought him nearer to the

precipice. He perceived that however ludicrous might be the image which his words produced, she was clever

enough in some way to turn that image to her own purpose. He had called a woman a fingerpost, and

forthwith she had offered to come to him and be a fingerpost to him for life! What was he to say to her? It

was clear that he must say something. As at this moment she was sobbing violently, he could not pass the

offer by as a joke. Women will say that his answer should have been very simple, and his escape very easy.

But men will understand that it is not easy to reject even a Miss Demolines when she offers herself for

matrimony. And, moreoveras Johnny bethought himself at this crisis of his fateLady Demolines was no

doubt at the other side of the drawingroom door, ready to stop him, should he attempt to run away. In the

meantime the sobs on the sofa became violent, and still more violent. He had not even yet made up his mind

what to do, when Madalina, springing to her feet, stood before him, with her curls wildly waving and her

arms extended. 'Let it be as though it were unsaid,' she exclaimed. John Eames had not the slightest objection;

but, nevertheless, there was a difficulty even in this. Were he simply to assent to this latter proposition, it

could not be that the feminine nature of Miss Demolines would be outraged by so uncomplimentary an

acquiescence. He felt that he ought at least to hesitate a little to make some pretence at closing upon the

rich offer that had been made to him; only that were he to show any such pretence the rich offer would, no

doubt, be repeated. His Madalina had twitted him in the earlier part of their interview with knowing nothing

of the nature of women. He did know enough to feel assured that any false step on his part now would lead

him into very serious difficulties. 'Let it be as though it were unsaid! Why, oh why, have I betrayed myself?'

John had now risen from his chair, and coming up to her took her by the arm and spoke a word. 'Compose

yourself,' he said. He spoke in his most affectionate voice, and he stood very close to her.

'How easy it is to bid me to do that,' said Madalina. 'Tell the sea to compose itself when it rages.'

'Oh, Johnwhy did you ever come here? Why? Why did we meet at that fatal woman's house? Or, meeting

so, why did we not part as strangers? Sir, why have you come here to my mother's house day after day,

evening after evening, ifOh, heavens, what am I saying? I wonder whether you will scorn me always?'

'Andyou will love me?' Then, without waiting for any more encouraging replyunable, probably, to wait

a moment longer, she sunk upon his bosom. He caught her of courseand at that moment the drawingroom

door was opened, and Lady Demolines entered the chamber. John Eames detected a glance at the skirt of the

old white dressing gown which he had seen whisking away on the occasion of his last visit to Porchester

Terrace. But on the present occasion Lady Demolines wore over it a short red opera cloak, and the cap on her

head was ornamented with coloured ribbons. 'What is this,' she said, 'and why am I thus disturbed?' Madalina

lay motionless in Johnny's arms, while the old woman glowered at him from under the coloured ribbons. 'Mr

'Your daughter, madam, seems to be a little unwell,' said Johnny. Madalina kept her feet firm on the ground,

but did not for a moment lose her purchase against Johnny's waistcoat. Her respiration came very strong, but

they came a good deal stronger when he mentioned the fact that she was not so well as she might be.

'Unwell!' said Lady Demolines. And John was stricken at the moment with a conviction that her ladyship

must have passed the early part of her life upon the stage. 'You would trifle with me, sir. Beware that you do

'My mother,' said Madalina; but still she did not give up her purchase, and the voice seemed to come half

from her and half from Johnny. 'Come to me, my mother.' Then Lady Demolines hastened to her daughter,

and Madalina between them was gradually laid at her length upon the sofa. The work of laying her out,

however, was left almost entirely to the strong arm of Mr John Eames. 'Thanks, mother,' said Madalina; but

she had not as yet opened her eyes, even for an instant. 'Perhaps I had better go now,' said Johnny. The old

woman looked at him with eyes which asked whether 'he didn't wish he might get it' as plainly as though the

words had been pronounced. 'Of course I'll wait if I can be of any service,' said Johnny.

'I must know more of this, sir, before you leave the house,' said Lady Demolines. He saw that between them

both there might probably be a very bad quarter of an hour in store for him; but he swore to himself that no

union of dragon and tigress should extract from him a word that could be taken as a promise of marriage.

The old woman was now kneeling by the head of the sofa, and Johnny was standing close by her side.

Suddenly Madalina opened her eyesopened them very wide, and gazed around her. Then slowly she raised

herself on the sofa, and turned her face first upon her mother and then upon Johnny. 'You here, mamma!' she

'Afraid! Why should I be afraid? John! My own John! Mamma, he is my own.' And she put out her arms to

him, as though calling to him to come to her. Things were now very bad with John Eames so bad that he

would have given a very considerable lump out of Lord De Guest's legacy to be able to escape at once into

the street. The power of a woman, when she chooses to use it recklessly, is, for the moment, almost

'I hope you find yourself a little better,' said John, struggling to speak, as though he were not utterly crushed

Lady Demolines slowly raised herself from her knees, helping herself with her hands against the shoulder of

the sofafor though still very clever, she was old and stiffand then offered both her hands to Johnny.

Johnny cautiously took one of them, finding himself unable to decline them both. 'My son!' she exclaimed;

and before he knew where he was the old woman had succeeded in kissing his nose and whiskers. 'My son!'

Now that the time had come for facing the dragon and the tigress in their wrath. If they were to be faced at

all, the time for facing them had certainly arrived. 'I don't quite understand,' he said, almost in a whisper.

Madalina put out one arm towards him, and the fingers trembled. Her lips were opened, and the white row of

interior ivory might be seen plainly; but at the present conjuncture of affairs she spoke not a word. She spoke

not a word; but her arm remained stretched towards him, and her fingers did not cease to tremble.

'You do not understand!' said Lady Demolines, drawing herself back and looking, in her short open cloak,

like a knight who has donned his cuirass, but has forgotten to put on his leggear. And she shook the bright

ribbons of her cap, as a knight in his wrath shakes the crest of his helmet. 'You do not understand, Mr Eames!

'Mother!' said Madalina, turning her eyes from her recent lover to her tender parent; trembling all over, but

'Sir!' said Lady Demolines, as she spoke, shook her crest, and glared at him, and almost flew at him in her

'It may be that nature has given way with me, and that I have been in a dream,' said Madalina.

'That which mine eyes saw was no dream,' said Lady Demolines. 'Mr Eames, I have given you the sweetest

'Yes, you did, I know. But, as I said before, there is some mistake. I know how proud I ought to be, and how

happy, and all that kind of thing. But' Then there came a screech from Madalina, which would have

awakened the dead, had there been any dead in that house. The page and cook, however, took no notice of it,

whether they were awakened or not. And having screeched, Madalina stood erect upon the floor, and she also

glared at her recreant lover. The dragon and the tiger were there before him now, and he knew that it behoved

him to look to himself. As he had a battle to fight, might it not be best to put a bold face upon it? 'The truth

'Leave him to me, mother,' said the tigress, shaking her head again, but with a kind of shake differing from

that which she had used before. 'This is my business, and I'll have it out for myself. If he thinks I am going to

put up with this kind of nonsense he's mistaken. I've been straightforward and above board with you, Mr

Eames, and I expect to be treated in the same way in return. Do you mean to tell my mother that you deny

'It's because I've no brother,' said the tigress. 'He thinks that I have no man near me to protect me. But he shall

'I shall consult my cousin the serjeant tomorrow,' said the dragon. 'In the meantime he must remain in this

This, I think, was the bitterest moment of all for Johnny. To be confined all night in Lady Demolines's

drawingroom would, of itself, be an intolerable nuisance. And then the absurdity of the thing, and the story

that would go abroad! And what would he say to the dragon's cousin the serjeant, if the serjeant should be

brought upon the field before he was able to escape from it? He did not know what a serjeant might not do to

him in such circumstances. There was one thing no serjeant should do, and no dragon! Between them all they

should never force him to marry the tigress. At this moment Johnny heard a tramp along the pavement, and

he rushed to the window. Before the dragon or even the tigress could arrest him, he had thrown open the sash,

and had appealed in his difficulty to the guardian of the night. 'I say, old fellow,' said Johnny, 'don't you stir

from that till I tell you.' The policeman turned his bull'seye upon the window, and stood perfectly

motionless. 'Now, if you please, I'll say goodnight,' said Johnny. But, as he spoke he still held the open

'Mamma, you had better let him go,' said the tigress. 'We shall know where to find him.'

'Go,' said the dragon, shaking her crestshaking all her armour at him'dastard, go!'

'Policeman,' shouted Johnny, while he still held the open window in his hand, 'mind you don't stir till I come

'I wish you a goodnight, Lady Demolines,' said Johnny. 'Goodnight, Miss Demolines.' Then he left the

'Let him go, mamma,' said the tigress as she closed the window. 'We shall only have a rumpus.'

'That will be all,' said Johnny. 'There isn't the slightest use in your trying to keep me here.'

'And are we never to see you again?' said the tigress, almost languishing again with one eye.

'Go, then,' said the tigress; 'but if you think that this is to be the end of it you'll find yourself wonderfully

mistaken. You poor false, drivelling creature! Lily Dale won't touch you with a pair of tongs. It's no use your

'Go away, sir, this moment, and don't contaminate my room an instant longer by your presence,' said the

dragon, who had observed through the window the bull'seye was still in full force before the house. Then

John Eames withdrew, and descending into the hall made his way in the dark to the front door. For aught he

knew there might still be treachery in regard to the lock; but his heart was comforted as he heard the footfall

of the policeman on the doorstep. With much fumbling he succeeded at last in turning the key and drawing

the bolt, and then he found himself at liberty in the street. Before he even spoke a word to the policeman he

went out into the road and looked up at the window. He could just see the figure of the dragon's helmet as she

was closing the shutters. It was the last he ever saw of Lady Demolines or her daughter.

'I don't know that I can just tell you,' said Johnny, searching in his pocketbook for half a sovereign which he

tendered to the man. 'There was a little difficulty, and I'm obliged to you for waiting.'

'There ain't nothing wrong?' said the man suspiciously, hesitating for a moment before he accepted the coin.

'Nothing on earth. I'll wait with you, while you have the house opened and inquire, if you wish it. The truth is

somebody inside refused to have the door opened, and I didn't want to stay there all night.'

'I suppose it's all right,' said the policeman, taking the money. And then John walked off home by himself,

turning his mind all the circumstances of his connection with Miss Demolines. Taking his own conduct as a

whole, he was rather proud of it; but he acknowledged to himself that it would be well that he should keep

On the morning of the Sunday after the dean's return, Mr Harding was lying in his bed, and Posy was sitting

on the bed beside him. It was manifest to all now that he became feebler and feebler from day to day, and that

he would never leave his bed again. Even the archdeacon had shaken his head, and had acknowledged to his

wife that the last day for her father was near at hand. It would very soon be necessary that he should elect

'No, darlingnot this morning,' said the old man. He himself well knew that he would never play

'No, indeed,' said he. 'Posy never teases me;' and he slowly moved his withered hand down outside the bed, so

'Dr Filgrave is downstairs, papa. You will see him, if he comes up?' Now Dr Filgrave was the leading

physician of Barchester, and nobody of note in the cityor for that matter of that in the eastern division of

the countywas allowed to start upon the last great journey without some assistance from him as the hour of

going drew nigh. I do not know that he had much reputation for prolonging life, but he was supposed to add a

grace to the hour of departure. Mr Harding expressed no wish to see the doctorhad rather declared his

conviction that Dr Filgrave could be of no possible service to him. But he was not a man to persevere in his

objection in opposition to the wishes of his friends around him; and as soon as the archdeacon had spoken a

'Posy will do me more good than Dr Filgrave, I'm quite sure;but Posy shall go now.' So Posy scrambled off

'A day or two will see the end of it, archdeacon; I should say a day or two,' said the doctor, as he met Dr

Grantly in the hall. 'I should say that a day or two will see the end of it. Indeed I will not undertake that

twentyfour hours may not see the close of his earthly troubles. He has no suffering, no pain, no disturbing

cause. Nature simply retires to rest.' Dr Filgrave, as he said this, made a slow falling motion with his hands,

which alone on various occasions had been thought to be worth all the money paid for his attendance.

'Perhaps you would wish that I should step in this evening, Mr Dean? As it happens, I shall be at liberty.' The

dean of course said that he would take it as an additional favour. Neither the dean nor the archdeacon had the

slightest belief in Dr Filgrave, and yet they would hardly have been contented that their fatherinlaw should

'Look at that man, now,' said the archdeacon, when the doctor had gone, 'who talks so glibly about nature

going to rest. I've known him all my life. He's an older man by some months than our dear old friend upstairs.

'No doubt he is; but my belief doesn't come from his saying it.' Then there was a pause as the two church

dignitaries sat together, doing nothing, feeling that the solemnity of the moment was such that it would be

hardly becoming that they should even attempt to read. 'His going will make an old man of me,' said the

'I seem to have known him all my life,' said the archdeacon. 'I have known him ever since I left college; and I

have known him as one man seldom does know another. There is nothing that he has doneas I believe

nothing that he has thoughtwith which I have not been cognisant. I feel sure that he never had an impure

fancy in his mind, or a faulty wish in his heart. His tenderness has surpassed the tenderness of a woman; and

yet, when occasion came for showing it, he had all the spirit of a hero. I shall never forget his resignation of

'As Septimus Harding he was, I think, right; but it would have been wrong in any other man. And he was

right, too, about the deanery.' For promotion had come in Mr Harding's way, and he, too, might have been

Dean of Barchester. 'The fact is, he never was wrong. He couldn't go wrong. He lacked guile, and he feared

Godand a man who does both will never go far astray. I don't think he ever coveted aught in his

lifeexcept a new case for his violoncello and somebody to listen to him when he played it.' Then the

archdeacon got up, and walked about the room in his enthusiasm; and, perhaps, as he walked some thoughts

as to the sterner ambition of his own life passed through his mind. What things had he coveted? Had he

lacked guile? He told himself that had feared Godbut he was not sure that he was telling himself true even

During the whole of the morning Mrs Arabin and Mrs Grantly were with their father, and during the greater

part of the day there was absolute silence in the room. He seemed to sleep; and they, though they knew in

truth that he was not sleeping, feared to disturb him by a word. About two Mrs Baxter brought him his

dinner, and he did rouse himself and swallowed a spoonful of soup, and half a glass of wine. At this time

Posy came to him, and stood at the bedside, looking at him with her great wide eyes. She seemed to be aware

that life had gone so far with her dear old friend that she must not be allowed on his bed again. But he put his

hand out to her, and she held it, standing quite still and silent. When Mrs Baxter came to take away the tray,

Posy's mother got up, and whispered a word to the child. Then Posy went away, and her eyes never beheld

the old man again. That was a day which Posy never forgotnot though she should live to be much older

'It is so sweet to have you both here,' he said, when he had been lying silent for nearly an hour after the child

had gone. Then they got up, and came and stood close to him. 'There is nothing left for me to wish, my

dears;nothing.' Not long afterwards he expressed a desire that the two husbandshis two sonsinlaw

should come to him; and Mrs Arabin went to them, and brought them into the room. As he took their

hands he merely repeated the same words again. 'There is nothing left for me to wish, my dears;nothing.'

He never spoke again above his breath; but ever and anon his daughters, who watched him, could see that he

was praying. The two men did not stay with him long, but returned to the gloom of the library. The gloom

had almost become the darkness of the night, and they were still sitting there without any light, when Mrs

Baxter entered the room. 'The dear gentleman is no more,' said Mrs Baxter; and it seemed to the archdeacon

that the very moment of his father's death had repeated itself. When Dr Filgrave called he was told that his

services would be of no further use. 'Dear, dear!' said the doctor. 'We are all dust, Mrs Baxter; are we not?'

There were people in Barchester who pretended to know how often the doctor had repeated this little formula

There was no violence of sorrow in the house that night; but there were aching hearts, and one heart so sore

that it seemed that no cure for its anguish could ever reach it. 'He has always been with me,' Mrs Arabin said

to her husband, as he strove to console her. 'It was not that I loved him better than Susan, but I have felt so

much more of his loving tenderness. The sweetness of his voice has been in my ears almost daily since I was

They buried him in the cathedral which he had loved so well, and in which nearly all the work of his life had

been done; and all Barchester was there to see him laid in his grave within the cloisters. There was no

procession of coaches, no hearse, nor was there any attempt at funereal pomp. From the dean's side door,

across the vaulted passage, and into the transeptover the little step upon which he had so nearly fallen

when last he made his way out of the buildingthe coffin was carried on men's shoulders. It was but a short

journey from his bedroom to his grave. But the bell had been tolling sadly all morning, and the nave and the

aisles and the transepts, close up to the door leading from the transept into the cloister, were crowded with

those who had known the name and the figure and the voice of Mr Harding as long as they had known

anything. Up to this day no one would have said specially that Mr Harding was a favourite of the town. He

had never been forward enough in anything to become the acknowledged possessor of popularity. But, now

that he was gone, men and women told each other how good he had been. They remembered the sweetness of

his smile, and talked of loving little words which he had spoken to themeither years ago or the other day,

for his words had always been loving. The dean and the archdeacon came first, shoulder to shoulder, and after

them came their wives. I do not know that it was the proper order for mourning, but it was a touching sight to

be seen, and was long remembered in Barchester. Painful as it was for them, the two women would be there,

and the two sisters would walk together;nor would they go before their husbands. Then there were the

archdeacon's two sonsfor the Rev Charles Grantly had come to Plumstead for the occasion. And in the

vaulted passage which runs between the deanery and the end of the transept all the chapter, with the choir, the

prebendaries, with the fat old chancellor, the precentor, and the minor canons down to the little

choristersthey were all there, and followed in at the transept door, two by two. And in the transept they

were joined by another clergyman who no one had expected to see that day. The bishop was there, looking

old and wornalmost as though he were unconscious of what he was doing. Since his wife's death no one

had seen him out of the palace or the palace grounds till that day. But there he wasand they made way for

him into the procession behind the two ladiesand the archdeacon, when he saw it, resolved that there

They made their way into the cloisters where the grave had been dugas many as might be allowed to

follow. The place indeed was open to all who chose to come; but they who had only slightly known the man

refrained from pressing upon those who had a right to stand around his coffin. But there was one other there

whom the faithful chronicler of Barchester should mention. Before any other one had reached the spot, the

sexton and the verger between them had led in between them, among the graves beneath the cloisters, a blind

old man, very old, with a wondrous stoop, but who must have owned a grand stature before extreme old age

had bent him, and they placed him sitting on a stone in the corner of the archway. But as soon as the shuffling

of steps reached his ears, he raised himself with the aid of his stick, and stood during the service leaning

against the pillar. The blind man was so old that he might almost have been Mr Harding's father. This was

John Bunce, bedesman from Hiram's Hospitaland none perhaps there had known Mr Harding better than

he had known him. When the earth had been thrown on to the coffin, and the service was over, and they were

about to disperse, Mrs Arabin went up to the old man, and taking his hand between hers whispered a word

into his ear. 'Oh, Miss Eleanor!,' he said. 'Oh, Miss Eleanor!' Within a fortnight he also was lying within the

And so they buried Mr Septimus Harding, formerly Warden of Hiram's Hospital in the city of Barchester, of

whom the chronicler may say that that city never knew a sweeter gentleman or a better Christian.

The fortnight following Mr Harding's death was passed very quietly at Hogglestock, for during that time no

visitor made an appearance in the parish except Mr Snapper on the Sundays. Mr Snapper, when he had

completed the service on the first of these Sundays, intimated to Mr Crawley his opinion that probably that

gentleman might himself wish to resume his duties on the following Sabbath. Mr Crawley, however,

courteously declined to do anything of the kind. He said that it was quite out of the question that he should do

so without a direct communication made to him from the bishop, or by the bishop's order. The assizes had, of

course, gone by, and all question of the trial was over. Neverthelessas Mr Snapper saidthe bishop had

not, as yet, given any order. Mr Snapper was of the opinion that the bishop in these days was not quite

himself. He had spoken to the bishop about it, and the bishop had told him peevishly'I must say quite

peevishly,' Mr Snapper had saidthat nothing was to be done at present. Mr Snapper was not the less clearly

of the opinion that Mr Crawley might resume his duties. To this, however, Mr Crawley would not assent.

But even during this fortnight Mr Crawley had not remained altogether neglected. Two days after Mr

Harding's death he had received a note from the dean in which he was advised not to resume the duties at

Hogglestock for the present. 'Of course you can understand that we have a sad house here for the present,' the

dean had said. 'But as soon as ever we are able to move in the matter we will arrange things for you as

comfortably as we can. I will see the bishop myself.' Mr Crawley had no ambitious idea of any comfort

which might accrue to him beyond that of an honourable return to his humble preferment at Hogglestock; but,

nevertheless, he was in this case minded to do as the dean counselled him. He had submitted himself to the

On the day after the funeral, the bishop had sent his compliments to the dean with an expression of a wish

that the dean would call upon him on any early day that might be convenient with reference to the position of

Mr Crawley of Hogglestock. The note was in the bishop's own handwriting and was as mild and civil as a

bishop's note could be. Of course the dean named an early day for the interview; but it was necessary before

he went to the bishop that he should discuss the matter with the archdeacon. If St Ewold's might be given to

Mr Crawley, the Hogglestock difficulties would all be brought to an end. The archdeacon, after the funeral,

had returned to Plumstead, and thither the dean went to him before he was the bishop. He did succeedhe

and Mrs Grantly between thembut with very great difficulty, in obtaining a conditional promise. They had

both thought that when the archdeacon became fully aware that Grace was to be his daughterinlaw, he

would at once have been delighted to have an opportunity of extricating from his poverty a clergyman with

whom it was his fate to be closely connected. But he fought the matter on twenty different points. He

declared at first that as it was his primary duty to give the people of St Ewold's the best clergyman he could

select for them he could not give the preference to Mr Crawley, because Mr Crawley, in spite of all his zeal

and piety, was a man so quaint in his manners and so eccentric in his mode of speech as not to be the best

clergyman whom he could select. 'What is my old friend Thorne to do with a man in the parish who won't

drink a glass of wine with him?'. For Ullathorne, the seat of that Mr Wilfred Thorne who had been so guilty

in the matter of the foxes, was situated in the parish of St Ewold's. When Mrs Grantly proposed that Mr

Thorne's consent should be asked, the archdeacon became very angry. It was his special duty to the best he

could for Mr Thorne, but it was specially his duty to do so without consulting Mr Thorne about it. As the

archdeacon's objection had been argued simply on the point of a glass of wine, both the dean and Mrs Grantly

thought that he was unreasonable. But they had their point to gain, and therefore only flattered him. They

were quite sure that Mr Thorne would like to have a clergyman in the parish who would himself be closely

connected with the archdeacon. Then Dr Grantly alleged that he might find himself in a trap. What if he

conferred the living of St Ewold's on Mr Crawley and after all there should be no marriage between his son

and Grace? 'Of course they'll be married,' said Mrs Grantly. 'It's all very well for you to say that, my dear; but

the whole family are so queer that there is no knowing what the girl may do. She may take up some other fad

now, and refuse him point blank.' 'She has never taken up any fad,' said Mrs Grantly, who now mounted

almost to wrath in defence of her future daughterinlaw, 'and you are wrong to say that she has. She has

behaved beautifully: as nobody knows better than you do.' Then the archdeacon gave way so far as to

promise that St Ewold's should be offered to Mr Crawley as soon as Grace Crawley was in truth engaged to

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 every quarrelled even with Mrs Proudie. But he

had belonged the antiProudie 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 always been 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 peaceamity, 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 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 affliction. The dean

had been in the habit of regarding Dr Proudie as a man almost young for his agehaving 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 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

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

'Thank you, my lord. He was excellent and worthy. I do not suppose that I shall live to see any man who was

'Ah, yes;just fiftysixand so strong! Was she not? At least everybody thought so. And yet she was gone

'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

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

'Sitting among the potsherds, like Job; has he not, Mr Dean? Well; let us hope that is all over. When this

accusation about the robbery was brought against him, I found myself bound to interfere.'

'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.'

'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 Tempestas to which he had

ever felt assured that one of the results was the death of his wife, whereby there was no longer any 'we' left in

the palace of Barchestersighed piteously, looking at the dean with a hopeless face.

'I hope we did. I think we did. And now what will we do? He has resigned his living, both to you and to me,

as I hearyou 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

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 of Hogglestock might yet be made for a few Sundays. The bishop, the dean

said, might easily understand that, after what has 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

'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 bishopas 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 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

About a week after this Henry Grantly rode over from Cosby Lodge to Hogglestock. It has just been 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 grandfatherand

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 alllest she should bring disgrace

upon him. But the disgrace was not certain; and if her father should be made free from it, thenthenthen

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

fatheronly 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 loveif he chose to repeat such tellingamidst 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 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 she had been with her

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

'Nay, dear; he is your own friendof your own making. You must say what you think fit.'

'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 therepointing to the

sittingroom 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

'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 do no 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

'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

'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.

'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 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

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 has 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

'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 deathbed, himself suggested it, moved thereto by what he had heard of the

cruel and undeserved persecution to which you had been subjected; as alsoon which point he was very

urgent in what he saidby the character which you bear in the diocese for zeal and piety. I may also add,

that the close connection 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

'St Ewold's is worth 350 pounds 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

'I shall be glad to hear your reply with as little delay as may suit your convenience, and in the event of your

accepting the offerwhich I sincerely trust that you may be enable to doI shall hope to have an early

'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 daughterinlaw, 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

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 his gracious speech about her father, was not again asked to alter his letter. 'I suppose he will accept it,'

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 again surrounded by those decencies of life which of late had been almost

Their various plans for the futurefor the immediate futurewere 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 eageror at any rate imperiousin 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 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 hardlytried seclusion?

She could only plead that both her husband and herself were so little used to going out that she fearedshe

fearedshe 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

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

any 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 though how wonderful was the power of Fortune,

that the goddess should 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 the 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

He flung himself into the old chair as soon as he entered, and asked for some bread and tea. 'Jane has already

'Grace, come here, that I may kiss you and bless you,' he said very solemnly. 'It would seem that the world is

'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 surely be needful before such a marriage

'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 it 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 the writing of you that he has put some real heart into his

'He makes me welcome to accept itif I may use the word after the ordinary and somewhat faulty parlance

'I know not that, my dear. The acceptance of a cure of souls is a thing not to be decided on in a momentas

is the colour of a garment or the shape of a toy. Nor would I condescend to take this thing from the

archdeacon's hands, if I thought that he bestowed it simply that the father of his daughterinlaw might no

'He gives it as a collateral reason, basing his offer first on the kindly expressed judgment of one who is no

more. Then he refers to the friendship of the dean. If he believed that the judgment of his late fatherinlaw

in so weighty a matter were the best to be relied upon of all that were at his command, then he would have

done well to trust to it. But in such a case he should have bolstered up a good ground for action with no

collateral supports which are weakand worse than weak. However, it shall have my best consideration,

whereunto I hope that wisdom will be given to me where only such wisdom can be had.'

'Not willinglynot if it may be accepted. Alas! you need not urge me, when the temptation is so strong!'

It was more than a week before the archdeacon received a reply from Mr Crawley, during which time the

dean had been over to Hogglestock more than once, as had also Mrs Arabin and Lady Lufton the

youngerand there had been letters written without end, and the archdeacon had been nearly beside himself.

'A man who pretends to conscientious scruples of that kind is not fit to have a parish,' he had said to his wife.

His wife understood what he meant, and I trust that the reader may also understand it. In the ordinary cutting

of blocks a very fine razor is not an appropriate instrument. The archdeacon, moreover, loved the

temporalities of the Church as temporalities. The Church was beautiful to him because one man by interest

might have a thousand a year, while another man equally good, but without interest, could only have a

hundred. And he liked the men who had the interest a great deal better than the men who had it not. He had

been willing to admit the poor perpetual curate, who had so long been kept out in the cold, within the pleasant

circle which was warm with ecclesiastical good things, and the man hesitatedbecause of scruples, as the

dean told him! 'I always button up my pocket when I hear of scruples,' the archdeacon said.

'Reverend and dear sir,' he said in his letter: 'For the personal benevolence of the offer made to me in your

letter of the instant, I beg to tender you my most grateful thanks; as also for you generous kindness to me,

in telling me of the high praise bestowed upon me by a gentleman who is now no morewhose character I

have esteemed and whose good opinion I value. There is, methinks, something inexpressibly dear to me in

the recorded praise of the dead. For the further instance of the friendship of the Dean of Barchester, I am also

'Since the receipt of your letter I have doubted much as to my fitness for the work you have proposed to

entrust to menot from any feeling that the parish of St Ewold's may be beyond my intellectual power, but

because the latter circumstances of my life have been of a nature so strange and perplexing that they have left

me somewhat in doubt as to my own aptitude for going about among men without giving offence and

'Nevertheless, reverend and dear sir, if after this confession on my part of a certain faulty demeanour with

which I know well that I am afflicted, you are still willing to put the parish into my hands, I will accept the

chargeinstigated to do so by the advice of all whom I have consulted on the subject; and, in thus accepting

it, I hereby pledge myself to vacate it at a month's warning, should I be called upon by you to do so at any

period within the next two years. Should I be so far successful during those twentyfour months as to have

satisfied both yourself and myself, I may then perhaps venture to regard the preferment as my own in

perpetuity for life;I have the honour to be, reverend and dear sir, you most humble and faithful servant,

'Psha!' said the archdeacon, who professed that he did not at all like the letter. 'I wonder what he would say if

At this time Grace was at the parsonage in a seventh heaven of happiness. The archdeacon was never rough

to her, nor did he make any of his harsh remarks about her father in her presence. Before her St Ewold's was

spoken of as the home that was to belong to the Crawleys for the next twenty years. Mrs Grantly was very

loving with her, lavishing upon her pretty presents, and words that were prettier than presents. Grace's life

had hitherto been so destitute of those prettinesses and softnesses which can hardly be had without money

though money alone will not purchase them, that it seemed to her now that the heavens rained graciousness

upon her. It was not that the archdeacon's watch or her lover's chain, or Mrs Grantly's locket, or the little toy

from Italy which Mrs Arabin brought to her from the treasures of the deanery, filled her heart with undue

exaltation. It was not that she revelled in her new delights of silver and gold and shining gems; but that the

silver and gold and shining gems were constant indications to her that things had changed, not only for her,

but for her father and mother, and brother and sister. She felt now more sure than ever that she could not have

enjoyed her love had she accepted her lover while the disgrace of the accusation against her father remained.

But nowhaving waited till that had passed away, everything was a new happiness to her.

At last it was settled that Mr and Mrs Crawley were to come to Plumsteadand they came. it would be too

long to tell now how gradually had come about that changed state of things which made such a visit possible.

Mr Crawley had at first declared that such a thing was out of the question. If St Ewold's was to depend upon

it St Ewold's must be given up. And I think that it would have been impossible for him to go direct from

Mr Harding's curate at St Ewold's was nominated to Hogglestock, and the dean urged upon his friend

Crawley the expediency of giving up the house as quickly as he could do so. Gradually at this time Mr

Crawley had been forced into a certain amount of intimacy with the haunts of men. He had been twice or

thrice at Barchester, and had lunched with the dean. He had been at Framley for an hour or two, and had been

forced into some communication with old Mr Thorne, the squire of his new parish. The end of this had been

that he had at last consented to transfer himself and wife and daughter to the deanery for a fortnight. He had

preached one farewell sermon at Hogglestocknot, as he told his audience, as their pastor, which he had

ceased to be now for some two or three monthsbut as their old and loving friend, to whom the use of his

former pulpit had been lent, that he might express himself thus among them for the last time. His sermon was

very short, and was preached without book or notesbut he never once paused for a word or halted in the

string or rhythm of his discourse. The dean was there and declared afterwards that he had not given him

credit for such powers of utterance. 'Any man can utter out of a full heart,' Crawley had answered. 'In this

trumpery affair about myself, my heart is full! If we could only have our hearts full in other matters, our

utterances thereanent would receive more attention.' To all of this the dean made no reply.

On the day after this the Crawleys took their final departure from Hogglestock, all the brickmakers from

Hoggle End having assembled on the occasion, with a purse containing seventeen pounds seven shillings and

sixpence, which they insisted on presenting to Mr Crawley, and as to which there was a little difficulty. And

at the deanery they remained for a fortnight. How Mrs Crawley, under the guidance of Mrs Arabin, had there

so far trenched upon the revenues of St Ewold's as to provide for her husband and herself raiment fitting for

the worldly splendour of Plumstead, need not here be told in detail. Suffice to say, the raiment was

forthcoming, and Mr Crawley found himself to be the perplexed possessor of a black dress coat, in addition

to the long frock, coming nearly to his feet, which was provided for his daily wear. Touching this garment,

there had been some discussion between the dean and the new vicar. The dean had desired that it should be

curtailed in length. The vicar had remonstratedbut still with something of the weakness of compliance in

his eye. Then the dean had persisted. 'Surely the price of the cloth wanted to perfect the comeliness of the

garment cannot be much,' said the vicar, almost woefully. After that, the dean relented, and the comeliness of

the coat was made perfect. The new black long frock, I think, Mr Crawley liked; but the dress coat, with the

With his new coat, and something also, of new manners, he and his wife went over to Plumstead, leaving

Jane at the deanery with Mrs Arabin. The dean also went to Plumstead. They arrived there not much before

dinner, and as Grace was there before them the first moments were not so bad. Before Mr Crawley had had

time to feel himself lost in the drawingroom, he was summoned away to prepare himself for dinnerfor

dinner, and for the coat, which at the deanery he had been allowed to leave unworn. 'I would with all my

heart that I might retire to rest,' he said to his wife, when the ceremony had been perfected.

'Do not say so. Go down and take your place with them, and speak your mind with themas you so well

'I have been told,' said Mr Crawley, 'that you shall take a cock which is lord of the farmyardthe cock of all

that walkand when you have daubed his feathers with mud, he shall be thrashed by every dunghill coward.

I say not that I was ever the cock of the walk, but I know that they have daubed my feathers.' Then he went

At dinner he was very silent, answering, however, with a sort of graceful stateliness any word that Mrs

Grantly addressed to him. Mr Thorne, of Ullathorne, was there also to meet his new vicar, as was also Mr

Thorne's very old sister, Miss Monica Thorne. And Lady Anne Grantly was thereshe having come with the

expressed intention that the wives of the two brothers should know each otherbut with a warmer desire, I

think, of seeing Mr Crawley, of whom the clerical world had been talking since some notice of the

accusations against him had become general. There were, therefore, ten or twelve at the dinnertable, and Mr

Crawley had not made one at such a board certainly since his marriage. All went fairly smooth with him till

the ladies left the room; for though Lady Anne, who sat at his left hand, had perplexed him somewhat with

clerical questions, he had found that he was not called upon for much more than monosyllabic responses. But

in his heart he feared the archdeacon and he felt that when the ladies were gone the archdeacon would not

As soon as the door was closed, the first subject mooted was that of the Plumstead fox, which had been so

basely murdered on Mr Thorne's ground. Mr Thorne had confessed the iniquity, had dismissed the murderous

gamekeeper, and all was serene. But the greater on that account was the feasibility of discussing the question,

and the archdeacon had a good deal to say about it. Then Mr Thorne turned to the new vicar, and asked him

whether foxes abounded in Hogglestock. Had he been asked as to the rats or moles, he would have known

'Indeed, sir, I know not whether or no there be any foxes in the parish of Hogglestock. I do not remember me

'There is an earth at Hoggle Bushes,' said the major; 'and I never knew it without a litter.'

'I think I know the domestic whereabouts of every fox in Plumstead,' said the archdeacon, with an illnatured

'Of foxes with two legs our friend is speaking, without doubt,' said the vicar of St Ewold's, with an attempt at

'Of them we have none at Plumstead. NoI was speaking of the dear old fellow with the brush. Pass the

bottle, Mr Crawley. Won't you fill your glass?' Mr Crawley passed the bottle, but would not fill the glass.

Then the dean, looking up slyly, saw the vexation written in the archdeacon's face. The parson whom the

Then the subject was changed. 'I'm told that the bishop has at last made his reappearance on his throne,' said

'Does he ever mean to preach again?' 'He never did preach very often,' said the dean.

'A great deal too often, from all people say,' said the archdeacon. 'I never heard him myself, and never shall, I

'I have never had that good fortune, Mr Archdeacon. But living as I shall now do, so near to the city, I may

perhaps be enabled to attend the cathedral service on some holyday of the Church, which may not require

prayers in my own rural parish. I think that the clergy of the diocese should be acquainted with the opinions,

and with the voice, and with the very manner and words of their bishop. As things are now done, this is not

possible. I could wish that there were occasions on which a bishop might assemble his clergy, and preach to

'He is a man whose conversation is not pleasing to me,' Mr Crawley said to his wife that night.

'Do not judge him too quickly, Josiah,' his wife said. 'There is so much of good in him! He is kind, and

'But he is of the earth, earthy. When you and the other ladies had retired, the conversation at first fell on the

habits and value offoxes. I have been informed that in these parts the fox is greatly prized, as without a fox

to run before the dogs, that scampering over the country which is called hunting, and which delights by the

quickness and perhaps the peril of the exercise, is not relished by the riders. Of the wisdom or taste herein

displayed by the hunters of the day I say nothing. But it seemed to me that in talking of foxes Dr Grantly was

master of his subject. Thence the topic glided to the duties of a bishop and to questions of preaching, as to

which Dr Grantly was not slow in offering his opinion. But I thought that I would rather have heard him talk

about the foxes for a week together.' She said nothing more to him, knowing well how useless it was to

attempt to turn him by any argument. To her thinking the kindness of the archdeacon to them personally

demanded some indulgence in the expression, and even in the formation, of an opinion, respecting his clerical

On the next day, however, Mr Crawley, having been summoned by the archdeacon into the library for a little

private conversation, found that he got on better with him. How the archdeacon conquered him may perhaps

be best described by a further narration of what Mr Crawley told his wife. 'I told him that in regard to money

matters, as he called them, I had nothing to say. I only trusted that his son was aware that my daughter had no

money, and never would have any. "My dear Crawley," the archdeacon saidfor of late there seems to have

grown up in the world a habit of greater familiarity than that which I think did prevail when last I moved

much among men"my dear Crawley, I have enough for both." "I would we stood on more equal ground," I

said. Then as he answered me, he rose from his chair. "We stand," said he, "on the perfect level on which

men can meet each other. We are both gentlemen." "Sir," I said, rising also, "from the bottom of the heart I

agree with you. I could not have spoken such words; but coming from you who are rich to me am poor, they

'He took down from the shelves a volume of some sermons which his father published many years ago, and

presented to me. I have it now under my arm. It hath the old bishop's manuscript notes, which I will study

It now only remains for me to gather together a few loose strings, and tie them together in a knot, so that my

work may not become untwisted. Early in July, Henry Grantly and Grace Crawley were married in the parish

church of Plumsteada great impropriety, as to which neither Archdeacon Grantly nor Mr Crawley could be

got to assent for a long time, but which was at last carried, not simply by a union of Mrs Grantly and Mrs

Crawley, nor even by the assistance of Mrs Arabin, but by the strong intervention of Lady Lufton herself. 'Of

course Miss Crawley ought to be married from St Ewold's vicarage; but when the furniture has only been half

got in, how is it possible?' When Lady Lufton thus spoke, the archdeacon gave way, and Mr Crawley hadn't a

leg to stand on. Henry Grantly had not an opinion on the matter. He told his father that he expected that they

would marry him among them, and that that had been enough for him. As for Grace, nobody even thought of

asking her; and I doubt whether she would have heard anything about the contest, had not some tidings of it

reached her from her lover. Married they were at Plumsteadand the breakfast was given with all that

luxuriance of plenty which was so dear to the archdeacon's mind. Mr Crawley was the officiating priest. With

his hands dropping before him, folded humbly, he told the archdeaconwhen that Plumstead question had

been finally settled in opposition to his wishesthat he would fain himself perform the ceremony by which

his dearest daughter would be bound to her marriage duties. 'And who else should?' said the archdeacon. Mr

Crawley muttered that he had not known how far his reverend brother might have been willing to waive his

rights. But the archdeacon, who was in high goodhumourhaving just bestowed a little pony carriage on

his new daughterinlawonly laughed at him; and, if the rumour which was handed about the families be

true, the archdeacon, before the interview was over, had poked Mr Crawley in the ribs. Mr Crawley married

them; but the archdeacon assistedand the dean gave the bride away. The Rev Charles Grantly was there

also; and as there was, as a matter of course, a cloud of curates floating in the distance, Henry Grantly was

perhaps to be excused for declaring to his wife, when the pair had escaped, that surely no couple had ever

Soon after that, Mr and Mrs Crawley became quiet at St Ewold's, and, as I think, contented. Her happiness

began very quickly. Though she had been greatly broken by her troubles, the first sight she had of her

husband in his new long frockcoat went far to restore her, and while he was declaring himself to be a cock

so daubed with mud as to be incapable of crowing, she was congratulating herself on seeing her husband once

more clothed as became his position. And they were lucky, too, as regarded the squire's house; for Mr Thorne

was old, and quiet, and old fashioned; and Miss Thorne was older, and though she was not exactly quiet, she

was very oldfashioned indeed. So that there grew to be a pleasant friendship between Miss Thorne and Mrs

Johnny Eames, when last I heard of him, was still a bachelor, and, as I think, likely to remain so. At last he

had utterly thrown over Sir Raffle Buffle, declaring to his friends that the special duties of private

secretaryship were not exactly to his taste. 'You get so sick at the thirteenth private note,' he said, 'that you

find yourself unable to carry on the humbug any farther.' But he did not leave his office. 'I'm the head of a

room, you know,' he told Lady Julia De Guest; 'and there's nothing to trouble meand a fellow, you know,

ought to have something to do.' Lady Julia told him, with a great deal of energy, that she would never forgive

him if he gave up his office. After that eventful night when he escaped ignominiously from the house of Lady

Demolines under the protection of the policeman's lantern, he did hear more than once from Porchester

Terrace, and from allies employed by the enemy who was there resident. 'My cousin the serjeant' proved to be

a myth. Johnny found out all about that Serjeant Runter, who was distantly connected, indeed, with the late

husband of Lady Demolines, but had always persistently declined to have any intercourse whatever with her

ladyship. For the serjeant was a rising man, and Lady Demolines was not exactly progressing in the world.

Johnny heard nothing from the serjeant; but from Madalina he got letter after letter. In the first she asked him

not to think too much of the little joke that had occurred. In her second, she described the vehemence of her

love. In her third the bitterness of her wrath. Her fourth simply invited him to come and dine in Porchester

Terrace. Her fifth was the outpouring of injured innocence. And then came letters from an attorney. Johnny

answered not a word to any of them, and gradually the letters were discontinued. Within six months of the

receipt of the last, he was delighted by reading among the marriages in the newspapers, a notice that Peter

Bangles, Esq;, of the firm Burton and Bangles, wine merchants, of Hook Court, had been united to Madalina,

daughter of the late Sir Confucius Demolines, at the church of Peter the Martyr. 'Most appropriate,' said

Johnny, as he read the notice to Conway Dalrymple, who was then back from his wedding tour; 'for most

'I'm not so sure of that,' said Conway, who had heard something of Mr Peter Bangles. 'There are men who

'Poor Madalina!' said Johnny. 'If he does beat her, I hope he will do it tenderly. It may be that a little of it will

Before the summer was over Conway Dalrymple had been married to Clara Van Siever, and by a singular

arrangement of circumstances had married her with the full approval of old Mrs Van. Mr

Musselborowhose name I hope has not been altogether forgotten, though the part played by him has been

subordinatehad opposed Dalrymple in the efforts made by the artist to get something out of Broughton's

estate for the benefit of the widow. From circumstances of which Dalrymple learned the particulars with the

aid of an attorney, it seemed to him that certain facts were wilfully kept in the dark by Musselboro, and he

went with his complaint to Mrs Van Siever, declaring that he would bring the whole affair into court, unless

all the workings of the firm were made clear to him. Mrs Van was very insolent to himand even turned

him out of the house. But, nevertheless, she did not allow Mr Musselboro to escape. Whoever was to be left

in the dark she did not wish it to be herself;and it began to dawn upon her that her dear Mr Musselboro

was deceiving her. Then she sent for Dalrymple, and without a word of apology for her former conduct, put

him upon the right track. As he was pushing his inquiries and working heaven and earth for the unfortunate

widow as to whom he swore daily that when this matter was settled he would never see her again, so

terrible was she to him with her mock affection and pretended hysterics, and false moralitieshe was told

one day that she had gone off with Mr Musselboro! Mr Musselboro, finding that this was the surest plain of

obtaining for himself the little business in Hook Court, married the widow of his late partner, and is at this

moment probably carrying a lawsuit with Mrs Van. For the lawsuit Conway Dalrymple cared nothing.

When the quarrel had become hot between Mrs Van and her late myrmidon, Clara fell into Conway's hands

without opposition; and, let the lawsuit go as it may, there will be enough left of Mrs Van's money to make

the house of Mr and Mrs Conway Dalrymple very comfortable. The picture of Jael and Sisera was stitched up

without any difficulty, and I daresay most of my readers will remember it hanging on the walls of the

Before I take my leave of the diocese of Barchester for ever, which I purpose to do in the succeeding

paragraph, I desire to be allowed to say one word of apology for myself, in answer to those who have accused

mealways without bitterness, and generally with tendernessof having forgotten, in writing of clergymen,

the first and most prominent characteristic of the ordinary English clergyman's life. I have described many

clergymen, they say, but have spoken of them all as though their professional duties, their high calling, their

daily workings for the good of those around them, were matters of no moment, either to me, or in my

opinion, to themselves. I would plead, in answer to this, that my object has been to paint the social and not

the professional lives of clergymen; and that I have been led to do so, firstly, by a feeling that as no men

affect more strongly, by their own character, the society of those around than do country clergymen, so,

therefore, their social habits have been worth the labour necessary for painting them; and secondly, by a

feeling that though I, as a novelist, may feel myself entitled to write of clergymen out of their pulpits, as I

may also write of lawyers and doctors, I have no such liberty to write of them in their pulpits. When I have

done so, if I have done so, I have so far transgressed. There are those who have told me that I have made all

my clergymen bad, and none good. I must venture to hint to such judges that they have taught their eyes to

love a colouring higher than nature justifies. We are, most of us, apt to love Raphael's madonnas better than

Rembrandt's matrons. But, though we do so, we know that Rembrandt's matrons existed; but we have a

strong belief that no such woman as Raphael painted ever did exist. In that he painted, as he may be surmised

to have done, for pious purposesat least for Church purposesRaphael was justified; but had he painted

so for family portraiture he would have been false. Had I written an epic about clergymen, I would have taken

St Paul for my model; but describing, as I have endeavoured to do, such clergymen as I see around me, I

could not venture to be transcendental. For myself I can only say that I shall always be happy to sit, when

allowed to do so, at the table of Archdeacon Grantly, to walk through the High Street of Barchester arm in

arm with Mr Robarts of Framley, and to stand alone and shed a tear beneath the modest black stone in the

north transept of the cathedral on which is inscribed the name of Septimus Harding.

And now, if the reader will allow me to seize him affectionately by the arm, we will together take our last

farewell of Barset and of the towers of Barchester. I may not venture to say to him that, in this country, he

and I together have wandered often through the country lanes, and have ridden together over the too

wellwooded fields, or have stood together in the cathedral nave listening to the peals of the organ, or have

together sat at good men's tables, or have confronted together the angry pride of men who were not good. I

may not boast that any beside myself have so realised the place, and the people, and the facts, as to make

such reminiscences possible as those which I should attempt to evoke by an appeal to perfect fellowship. But

to me Barset has been a real county, and its city a real city, and the spires and towers have been before my

eyes, and the voices of the people are known to my ears, and the pavement of the city ways are familiar to my

footsteps. To them all I now say farewell. That I have been induced to wander among them too long by my

love for old friendships, and by the sweetness of old faces, is a fault for which I may perhaps be more readily

forgiven, when I repeat, with solemnity of assurance, that promise made in my title, that this shall be the last