CHAPTER XIX._The Last Chronicle of Barset

WHERE DID IT COME FROM?

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 his wife,--and there was no further disturbance.

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 pitied."

"I have always heard that she is a violent woman."

"Very violent, and very ignorant; and most intrusive withal."

"And you did not answer her a word?"

"At last my forbearance with her broke down, and I bade her mind her

distaff."

"What;--really? Did you say those words to her?"

"Nay; as for my exact words I cannot remember them. I was thinking

more of the words with which it might be fitting that I should answer

the bishop. But I certainly told her that she had better mind her

distaff."

"And how did she behave then?"

"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 leave-taking. There had been little ceremony

of greeting on their part, and there was less in the making of adieux

on mine. They had told me that I was a thief--"

"No, Josiah,--surely not so? They did not use that very word?"

"I say they did;--they did use the 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 ignorant,--puzzle-pated, as you may call it,--led 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 a--thief."

"May she be punished for the cruel word!" said Mrs. Crawley. "May the

remembrance that she has spoken it come, some day, heavily upon her

heart!"

"'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 it to me now, that she called me a thief to my

face? Do I not know that, all the country round, men and women are

calling me the same behind my back?"

"No, Josiah, you do not know that. They say that the thing is very

strange,--so strange that it requires a trial; but no one thinks you

have taken that which was not your own."

"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

thought,--as though he were striving to bring his mind to bear with

accuracy upon past events. "It could not have been mine, and yet--"

Then he sat silent, and made no effort to continue his speech.

"And yet?"--said his wife, encouraging him to proceed. If she could

only learn the real truth, she thought that she might perhaps yet

save him, with assistance from their friends.

"When I said that I had gotten it from that man I must have been

mad."

"From which man, love?"

"From the man Soames,--he who accuses me. And yet, as the Lord hears

me, I thought so then. The truth is, that there are times when I

am not--sane. I am not a thief,--not before God; but I am--mad at

times." These last words he spoke very slowly, in a whisper,--without

any excitement,--indeed 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, 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 of

his own state, that she had been unable even to ask him a question

about the money,--lest he should suspect that she suspected him. Now

he was speaking,--but speaking with such heartrending sadness that

she could hardly urge him to go on.

"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 the spirit;--and

then there is sickness of the mind, the worst of all."

"With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first."

"With me, Mary, it has been all of them,--every one! My spirit is

broken, and my mind has not been able to keep its even tenour 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

glad that he should go alone.

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 his

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 ever.

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

families of the farmers as had stayed for the Lord's supper.

"I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter six,--so 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 mill. But I am not

the less obliged by your great kindness."

"Say nowt o' that," said the farmer. "No doubt I had business at the

mill,--lots to do at the mill." Nor did he think that the fib he was

telling was at all incompatible with the Holy Sacrament in which he

had just taken a 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 saw on the board before them. There was roast

pork and mince-pies, 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 her husband's face

to see whether he was scrutinizing 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

pork,--but 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 mince-pie 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 eat one herself, as otherwise her girl

would have been forced also to refuse the dainty.

That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she resolved to ask him

some further questions. "You will have a lawyer, Josiah,--will you

not?" she said.

"Why should I have a lawyer?"

"Because he will know what questions to ask, and how questions on the