MISS PRETTYMAN'S PRIVATE ROOM.
[Illustration]
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 justified,--for the present moment,--by the circumstances
in which Grace Crawley's father had placed himself. 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 Crawley,--so he told himself,--was 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 Dunstable,--to that, and her
good-humour and rosy freshness combined. But he regarded himself as
the well-to-do 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 this with double strength after his
father's threat.
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 so,--telling himself also that, by the stern laws of
the world, the son and the daughter must pay for the offence of the
father and the 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 false,--if the man were being injured by an unjust
charge,--even 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 in 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 her 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 became unjust.
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 to be 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.
Walker,--with Mrs. Walker, who knew well of the good fortune which
was hovering over Grace's head and was so nearly settling itself upon
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 open-mouthed with inquiry, but rather
with open ears, and it seemed to him that all men in Barchester were
of one mind. There was a county-club in Barchester, and at this
county-club nine men out of every 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 Barchester,--at any rate in the
county-club,--seemed 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 of the girl whom he loved.
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 that he would certainly 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 now be explicit. Had
he been a wise man altogether, he would probably have abstained from
saying anything at the present moment,--a 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 are there 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 head,--and 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
further, and to do that something at once.
Therefore he started off on the Monday morning after breakfast and
walked to Silverbridge, and as he walked he built various castles in
the air. Why should he not marry Grace,--if she would have him,--and
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 apologize for not doing this magnificent thing. His
mind was quite made up. Nevertheless he built those castles in the
air.
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 either to assist his suit or to
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."
"It is early, I know; but as I want to say a word or two on
business--"
"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 it is 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 in the presence of Grace that there was somebody
in the hall.
"It's Major Grantly," whispered Anne, as soon as Grace had shut the
door behind her.
"So I supposed 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 come and gone. He can
only have come with one object."
"He wouldn't have come to me for that. He would have asked to see
herself."
"But she never goes out now, and he can't see her."
"Or he would have gone to them over at Hogglestock," said Miss
Prettyman. "But of course he must come up now he is here. Would you
mind telling him? or shall I ring the bell?"
"I'll tell him. We need not make more fuss than necessary, with the
servants, you know. I suppose I'd better not come back with him?"
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 sister's room without even entering it again,
herself.
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 how to
commence them.
She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken his hand and asked
him to sit down. "My sister tells me that you want to see me," she
said, in her softest, mildest voice.
"I do, Miss Prettyman. I want to speak to you about a matter that
troubles me very much,--very much indeed."
"Anything that I can do, Major Grantly--"
"Thank you, yes. I know that you are very good, or I should not have
ventured to come to 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 are to Miss Crawley."
"Yes, I am. We love Grace dearly here."
"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 differently, and he was
obliged to go on. "I don't know whether you have ever heard about it,
or noticed it, or--or--or--" He felt that he was very awkward, and he
blushed. Major as he was, he blushed as he sat before the old 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 wife, and
now has come this terrible affair about her father."
"It is a terrible affair, Major Grantly; very terrible."
"By Jove, you may say that!"
"Of course Mr. Crawley is as innocent in the matter as you or I are."
"You think so, Miss Prettyman?"
"Think so! I feel quite sure of it. What; a clergyman of the Church
of England, a pious, hard-working country clergyman, 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 wrong conclusion
after all.
"And how does Miss Crawley bear it?" he asked, desirous of postponing
for a while any declaration of his own purpose.
"She is very unhappy, of course. Not that she thinks evil of her
father."
"Of course she does not think him guilty."
"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
to-day."
"I was not thinking of it," said the major.
"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 strong-minded reader. I fear that our
lover will henceforth be considered by such a one as being but a
weak, wishy-washy man, who had hardly any mind of his own to speak
of;--that he was a man of no account, as the poor people say. "Miss
Prettyman, what message ought I to send to her?" he said.
"Nay, Major Grantly, how can I tell you that? How can I put words
into your mouth?"
"It isn't the words," he said; "but the feelings."
"And how can I tell the feelings of your heart?"
"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 when I asked her,--wondering whether I was too
old for her, and whether she would mind having Edith to take care
of."
"She is very fond of Edith,--very fond indeed."
"Is she?" said the major, more distracted than ever. Why should he
not do the magnificent thing after all? "But it is a great charge for
a young girl when she marries."
"It is a great charge;--a very great charge. It is for you to think
whether you should entrust so great a charge to one so young."
"I have no fear about that at all."
"Nor should I have any,--as you ask me. We have known Grace well,
thoroughly, and are quite sure that she will do her duty in that
state of life to which it may please God to call her."
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 almost gratefully, though
he felt that he was being led away from his purpose. He consoled
himself for this, however, by remembering that the path by 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 about that long ago."
"And what can I do for you, Major Grantly?"
"You think I ought not to see her?"
"I will ask herself, if you please. I have such trust in her judgment
that I should leave her altogether to her own discretion."
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 father-in-law disgraced and degraded, and of his own father
broken-hearted. But now there was hardly an 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 be my wife. But I
must see her alone."
Then Miss Prettyman paused. Hitherto she had undoubtedly been playing
her fish cautiously, or rather her young friend's fish,--perhaps 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 purpose,--of 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 far,--having so far told
his love, he would return to his love hereafter, let the result of
the Crawley trial be what it might. But,--but, this could be no
proper time for love-making. 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 would 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
thought 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 her 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 receive."
"You think she would refuse me?"
"I do not think that she would accept you now. She would feel,--I 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 if you please."
The major allowed himself a moment for thought; and as he thought he
sighed. Grace Crawley became 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 so ask
her now. For the present, perhaps, he had better be guided by Miss
Prettyman. "Then I will not see her," he said.
"I think that will be the wiser course."
"Of course you knew before this that I--loved her?"
"I thought so, Major Grantly."
"And that I intended to ask her to be my wife?"
"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 gone,--though I am not at all disposed to interfere with
any girl whom I believe to be pure and good as I know her to be,--but
still I should hardly have been justified in letting things go as
they have gone, if I had not believed that such was your purpose."
"I wanted to set myself right with you, Miss Prettyman."
"You are right with me,--quite right;" and she got up and gave him
her hand. "You are a fine, noble-hearted 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."
"And will you give Grace my love?"
"I will tell her at any rate that you have been here, and that
you have inquired after her with the greatest kindness. She will
understand what that means without any word of love."
"Can I do anything for her,--or for her father; I mean in the way
of--money? I don't mind mentioning it to you, Miss Prettyman."
"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 sharp-eared maid-servant 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 the 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 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 popped," she said to
herself, as she made her way back to the school.
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. But,--and this but robbed him of all the
pleasure which comes from real success,--but 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 half-an-hour, to the satisfaction of the nurse, of the
child, and of himself.