THE ARCHDEACON'S THREAT.
The dinner-party 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 from 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 father
and mother 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 Shropshire,--as 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
by her 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. Grantly, "but I think,--I do think--" Then she
stopped herself.
"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 drawing-room,
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." Then there seemed to
be nothing more to be said between the two. 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 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
troubles,--who had never justified his father in using stern parental
authority,--was 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 be. Shall I send for another bottle?"
"It will do for me, sir. I shall only take a glass."
"I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you young fellows
have become so desperately temperate."
"We take our wine at dinner, sir."
"By-the-by, how well Griselda is looking."
"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 should 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 maintain her position in life."
"You may say the same, sir, of everybody's wife and everybody's
daughter."
"You know what I mean, Henry."
"I am not quite sure that I do, sir."
"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 woman living in Silverbridge to whom you are becoming
attached."
"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."
"I hope so, Henry; I hope so. I do hope so."
"So much I will promise, sir; but I will promise nothing more."
The archdeacon looked across into 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 any one, 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 engaged."
"I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the first
opportunity of telling either 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."
"But there is something in it, sir."
"What is there in it? Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. What is it
you mean?"
"It is rather hard to be cross-questioned 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 say that I have deceived you."
"But you don't mean to marry her?"
"I certainly do not mean to pledge myself not to do so."
"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 said never 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 very
grave suspicion of--of--of--what I'm afraid I must call downright
theft."
"Downright theft, certainly, if he were guilty."
"I say nothing of all that; but looking at the young woman herself--"
"She is simply the best educated girl whom it has ever been my lot to
meet."
"Henry, I have a right to expect that you will be honest with me."
"I am honest with you."
"Do you mean to ask this girl to marry you?"
"I do not think that you have any right to ask me that question,
sir."
"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--my--my
continued assistance."
"Do you intend me to understand that you will stop my income?"
"Certainly I should."
"Then, sir, I think you would behave to me most cruelly. You advised
me to give up my profession."
"Not in order that you might marry Grace Crawley."
"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."
"Very well, Henry."
"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 to-morrow,
if you like it. I had not as yet made up my mind to make an offer to
Miss Crawley, but I shall now do so to-morrow 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
matters,--having a dislike for poverty which was not generous,--and
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 Crawley would be a fitting
sister-in-law for that dear girl upstairs?"
"Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the world; excepting
that Griselda, who is not clever, would hardly be able to appreciate
Miss Crawley, who is clever."
"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 any one that we could
name here."
"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 present moment. The major, however, was indiscreet,
and pushed the question. "May I understand, sir, that your threat is
withdrawn, and that my income is secure?"
"What, if you marry this girl?"
"Yes, sir; will my income be continued to me if I marry Miss
Crawley?"
"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 drawing-room. That evening at the rectory was
very 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 fire and knitted.
Exactly at ten they all went to bed.
"Dear Henry," said the mother to her son the next morning; "think
much of yourself, and of your child, and of us, before you take any
great step in life."
"I will, mother," said he. Then he went out and put on his wrapper,
and got into his dog-cart, and drove himself off to Silverbridge. He
had not spoken to his father since they were in the dining-room 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.