The Chronicles of Barsetshire (316 page)

“Well, my dear, yes—but very glad all the same. I hope everybody is well at Plumstead?”

“Everybody, thank you, papa.”

“That is well. Posy and I are getting ready for church. Are we not, Posy?”

“Grandpapa is getting ready. Mrs. Baxter won’t let me go.”

“No, my dear, no—not yet, Posy. When Posy is a great girl she can go to the cathedral every day. Only then, perhaps, Posy won’t want to go.”

“I thought that, perhaps, papa, you would sit with me a little while this morning, instead of going to morning prayers.”

“Certainly, my dear—certainly. Only I do not like not going—for who can say how often I may be able to go again? There is so little left, Susan—so very little left.”

After that she had not 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 footsteps—how 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 him 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 mistake—no 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 cathedral—alone.

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 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 pardon—not 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 had succeeded in getting both Posy and Mrs. Baxter out of the room—against the doing of which, Mr. Harding had manoeuvred with all his little impotent skill—”Papa, you must promise me 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 no 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, caressing it. “My dear,” he said, “you are always right.”

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 half-realised 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’s-cradle! Then, in the midst of his regrets, as he sat with his back bent in his old easy-chair, 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 ever brightened the face of man or woman. He had been able to tell himself that he had no ground for complaint—great 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 that smile came across his face—as 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 depart in peace.”

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 have me for a few days!”

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 ministrations of his darling cathedral, it specially behoved him to die—as he had lived—at 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 nothing more.

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 as he was not going to the cathedral he would, he thought, lie in bed a little longer. And then he had lain in bed the whole day. “And, perhaps, honoured madam, looking at all things, it’s best as he should,” said Mrs. Baxter.

CHAPTER L

Lady Lufton’s Proposition

It was now known throughout Barchester that a commission was to be held by the bishop’s orders, at which inquiry would be made—that is, ecclesiastical inquiry—as 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 all 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 bishop—and 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 Lufton.

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 Greshamsbury 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 matter—that Bishop Proudie was singularly ignorant in 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 on the subject at Framley Court, where Lady Lufton lived with her son and daughter-in-law.

“They tell me,” said Lady Lufton, “that both the archdeacon and Dr. Tempest think it is right that a commission should be held. If so, I have no doubt that it is right.”

“Mark says that the bishop could hardly do anything else,” rejoined Mrs. Robarts.

“I daresay not, my dear. I suppose the bishop has somebody 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.”

“Oh, Lady Lufton, that is such a strong word,” said Mrs. Robarts.

“It may be strong, but it is not the less true,” said Lady Lufton.

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 early part of this story that there still existed a certain understanding between Mrs. Crawley and Lord Lufton’s wife, and that kindnesses occasionally passed from Framley Court to Hogglestock Parsonage; but on this occasion young Lady Lufton—the Lucy Robarts who had once passed certain days of her life with the Crawleys at Hogglestock—did not choose to accompany her mother-in-law; 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 wicket-gate, from whence 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. “H—m—m, 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 she thought that would be the best; and the card and message were carried in.

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, or—more probable still—he 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 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 wealth—but 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, and therefore I need hardly apologise.”

“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 at 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.”

“I like them very much,” said Grace. And then there was another pause.

“I hope your husband is pretty well, Mrs. Crawley?” said Lady Lufton.

“He is pretty well—not 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 good-natured, and therefore Mrs. Crawley would do all in her power to make Lady Lufton’s mission easy to her.

“Indeed yes,” said her ladyship; “we do know that.”

“We feel so much for you and Mr. Crawley,” said Mrs. Robarts; “and we 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 told that He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.”

“And so He does my dear,” said the old lady, very solemnly. “So He does. Surely you have felt that it is so?”

“I struggle not to complain,” said Mrs. Crawley.

“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 friendship.”

“Your ladyship is too good,” said Mrs. Crawley.

“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.”

“Yes—we are distressed.”

“And we know how cruel circumstances have been to you. Will you not forgive me for being plain?”

“I have nothing to forgive,” said Mrs. Crawley.

“Lady Lufton means,” said Mrs. Robarts, “that in asking you to talk openly to her of your affairs, she wishes you to remember that—I think you know what we mean,” said Mrs. Robarts, knowing very well herself what she did mean, but not knowing at all how to express herself.

“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 was 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 high-souled sufferer will not easily part. Baskets full of eggs, pounds of eleemosynary butter, quarters of given pork, even second-hand clothing from the wardrobe of some richer sister—even money, unsophisticated money, she could accept. She had learned to know that it was a portion of her allotted misery to take such things—for the sake of her children and her husband—and 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 to accept spoken pity from a stranger, and to kiss the speaker.

“Can we not do something to help you?” said Mrs. Robarts. She would not have spoken but that 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 serviceable.”

“But we mean something more than that,” said Lady Lufton.

“I do not know what there is more,” said Mrs. Crawley. “A bit to eat and something to wear—that seems to be all that we have to care for now.”

“But we were afraid that this coming trial must cause you so much anxiety.”

“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 would be better whatever the result might be.”

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.”

“Oh, no, Lady Lufton; I have no feeling of that kind.”

“I have asked your daughter and Mrs. Robarts to go out because I can speak more easily to you alone. I wish I could teach you to trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“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 husband—what will you do then? Perhaps I ought not to 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 akimbo on the table.

“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 do?”