GRACE CRAWLEY.
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 health;--was 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
good-nature 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 tea-parties,--would go, indeed, to any party to which
she might be invited; and was known to have a pleasant taste for
pound-cake and sweet-meats. 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 ill-natured enough to say that
she wanted to marry Mr. Winthrop; but of what maiden lady that goes
out into the world are not such stories told? And all such stories in
Silverbridge were told with special reference to Mr. Winthrop.
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 Anne Prettyman;
a statement, however, which was by no means true, for during those
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 any one except you," said Anne.
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 London,--a clerk high up and
well-to-do in a public office, a nephew of her mother's,--and 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 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 lady was Miss
Lily Dale, and the name of the well-to-do cousin in London was Mr.
John Eames.
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 assist us in our story, I will venture to give
them both.
Silverbridge, -- December, 186--.
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 of 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
says,--a Mr. Soames, I believe it is,--that 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, than even borrow
a shilling which he could not pay. To suppose that he
would take money [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 had 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 most
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 me,--and it was then I first knew that
papa would really have to be tried,--I 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 papa,--which she would not believe,
as she knew him to be a good man,--there 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 serious,--for just before, through
her tears, she had tried to smile,--and 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 hope for anything
again.
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 be
unhappy except us. Good-by, 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
magistrates' meeting on the Thursday, but it will be better for our
story that it should be given here than postponed until the result
of that meeting shall have been told. Miss Dale's answer was as
follows:--
Allington, -- December, 186--.
DEAR GRACE,
Your letter has made me very unhappy. If it can at all
comfort you to know that mamma and I sympathize with you
altogether, in that you may at any rate be sure. But in
such troubles nothing will give comfort. They must be
borne, till the fire of misfortune burns itself out.
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 should
suffer grievously; and I pity your mother quite as much as
I do him.
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 had so much
experience, that I do not scruple, as you will see, to
come down upon you with all the weight of my wisdom.
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 one of the dearest. But when one thinks of going
beyond friendship, even if one tries to do so, there are
so many barriers!
Your affectionate friend,
LILY DALE.
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 us,--I 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 you had
left in some sort of disgrace. Come to us, and when all
this has been 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 you have only got to ask your own mamma, and come
at once.
This letter, as the reader will understand, did not reach Grace
Crawley till after the all-important Thursday; but before that day
had come round, Grace had told Miss Prettyman,--had told both the
Miss Prettymans--that she was resolved to leave them. She had done
this without even consulting her mother, driven to it by various
motives. She knew that her father's conduct was being discussed by
the girls in the school, and that things were said of him which it
could not but be for the disadvantage of Miss Prettyman that any one
should say of a teacher in her 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 also
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 a negative; and if he were
minded not to speak it, would it not be better that she should leave
herself the power of thinking that his silence had been caused by her
absence, and not by his coldness or indifference?
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
ladies,--which were sometimes very awful in their nature,--for 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 there 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 at 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 be effective was done by her within the shrine of her own peculiar
room.
"Well, my dear, what is it?" she said to Grace. "Sit in the
arm-chair, my dear, and we can then talk comfortably." The teachers,
when they were closeted with Miss Prettyman, were always asked to sit
in the arm-chair, whereas a small, straight-backed, 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 had not behaved themselves so prettily as young ladies
generally do.
Grace seated herself, and then began her speech very quickly. "Miss
Prettyman," she said, "I have made up my mind that I will go home, if
you please."
"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 good-looking.
And she assumed nothing of 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 mean-looking, little old woman. And certainly there would have
been nothing awful in her to any one 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, and
so unwise.
"I think I ought to be with mamma at present," said Grace.
"Your mother has your sister with her."
"Yes, Miss Prettyman; Jane is there."
"If there be 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 married,--but then there are reasons why this
should not be so."
"Of course there are."
"I do not think,--that is, if I know all that there is to be
known,--I do not think, I say, that there can be any good ground for
your leaving us now,--just now."
Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gathering her courage, and
collecting her words; and after that she spoke. "It is because of
papa, and because of this charge--"
"But, Grace--"
"I know what you are going to say, Miss Prettyman;--that is, I think
I know."
"If you will hear me, you may be sure that you know."
"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 nearly choked by her tears.
"And what are the other reasons, Grace?"
"I don't know," said Grace, struggling to speak through her tears.
"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 going, to me are reasons for your remaining here."
"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 looking at me,--and the
servants."
Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking 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 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 down 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?"
[Illustration: "I love you as though you were my own," said the
Schoolmistress.]
"I must go home," said Grace.
"Of course you shall, if you think it right at last; but let us
talk of it. No one in this house, you know, has the slightest
suspicion that your father has done anything that is in the least
dishonourable."
"I know that you have not."
"No, nor has Anne." Miss Prettyman said this as though no one in that
house beyond herself and her sister had a right to have any opinion
on any subject.
"I know that," said Grace.
"Well, my dear. If we think so--"
"But the servants, Miss Prettyman?"
"If any servant in this house says a word to offend you,
I'll--I'll--"
"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 having another mouth to feed, and another head to
shelter? You haven't thought of that, Grace!"
"Yes, I have."
"And as 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
settling, 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've 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 at 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 in,--if 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 been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness.
"I did not know that Grace Crawley was here," said Miss Anne.
"Grace Crawley is here," said Miss Prettyman.
"What is the matter, Grace?" said Miss Anne, seeing the tears.
"Never mind now," said Miss Prettyman.
"Poor dear, I'm sure I'm sorry as though she were my own sister,"
said Anne. "But, Annabella, I want to speak to you especially."
"To me, in private?"
"Yes, to you; in private, if Grace won't mind?"
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 into your room, will
you?--not across the hall to the school."
"And why shouldn't she go to the school?" said Miss Prettyman.
Miss Anne paused a moment, and then answered,--unwillingly, as though
driven to make a reply which she knew to be indiscreet. "Because
there is somebody in the hall."
"Go to your room, dear," said Miss Prettyman. And Grace went to her
room, never turning an eye down towards the hall. "Who is it?" said
Miss Prettyman.
"Major Grantly is here, asking to see you," said Miss Anne.