THE CROSS-GRAINEDNESS OF MEN.
[Illustration]
By the time that the archdeacon reached Plumstead his enthusiasm in
favour of Grace Crawley had somewhat cooled itself; and the language
which from time to time he prepared for conveying his impressions to
his wife, became less fervid as he approached his home. There was his
pledge, and by that he would abide;--and so much he would make both
his wife and his son understand. But any idea which he might have
entertained for a moment of extending the promise he had given and
relaxing that given to him was gone before he saw his own chimneys.
Indeed, I fear he had by that time begun to feel that the only
salvation now open to him must come from the jury's verdict. If the
jury should declare Mr. Crawley to be guilty, then--; he would not
say even to himself that in such case all would be right, but he did
feel that much as he might regret the fate of the poor Crawleys, and
of the girl whom in his warmth he had declared to be almost an angel,
nevertheless to him personally such a verdict would bring consolatory
comfort.
"I have seen Miss Crawley," he said to his wife, as soon as he had
closed the door of his study, before he had been two minutes out of
the chaise. He had determined that he would dash at the subject at
once, and he thus carried his resolution into effect.
"You have seen Grace Crawley?"
"Yes; I went up to the parsonage and called upon her. Lady Lufton
advised me to do so."
"And Henry?"
"Oh, Henry has gone. He was only there one night. I suppose he saw
her, but I am not sure."
"Would not Miss Crawley tell you?"
"I forgot to ask her." Mrs. Grantly, at hearing this, expressed her
surprise by opening wide her eyes. He had gone all the way over to
Framley on purpose to look after his son, and learn what were his
doings, and when there he had forgotten to ask the person who could
have given him better information than any one else! "But it does not
signify," continued the archdeacon; "she said enough to me to make
that of no importance."
"And what did she say?"
"She said that she would never consent to marry Henry as long as
there was any suspicion abroad as to her father's guilt."
"And you believe her promise?"
"Certainly I do; I do not doubt it in the least. I put implicit
confidence in her. And I have promised her that if her father is
acquitted,--I will withdraw my opposition."
"No!"
"But I have. And you would have done the same had you been there."
"I doubt that, my dear. I am not so impulsive as you are."
"You could not have helped yourself. You would have felt yourself
obliged to be equally generous with her. She came up to me and she
put her hand upon me--" "Psha!" said Mrs. Grantly. "But she did, my
dear; and then she said, 'I promise you that I will not become your
son's wife while people think that papa stole this money.' What else
could I do?"
"And is she pretty?"
"Very pretty; very beautiful."
"And like a lady?"
"Quite like a lady. There is no mistake about that."
"And she behaved well?"
"Admirably," said the archdeacon, who was in a measure compelled
to justify the generosity into which he had been betrayed by his
feelings.
"Then she is a paragon," said Mrs. Grantly.
"I don't know what you may call a paragon, my dear. I say that she is
a lady, and that she is extremely good-looking, and that she behaved
very well. I cannot say less in her favour. I am sure you would not
say less yourself, if you had been present."
"She must be a wonderful young woman."
"I don't know anything about her being wonderful."
"She must be wonderful when she has succeeded both with the son and
with the father."
"I wish you had been there instead of me," said the archdeacon,
angrily. Mrs. Grantly very probably wished so also, feeling that in
that case a more serene mode of business would have been adopted.
How keenly susceptible the archdeacon still was to the influences of
feminine charms, no one knew better than Mrs. Grantly, and whenever
she became aware that he had been in this way seduced from the wisdom
of his cooler judgment she always felt something akin to indignation
against the seducer. As for her husband, she probably told herself at
such moments that he was an old goose. "If you had been there, and
Henry with you, you would have made a great deal worse job of it than
I have done," said the archdeacon.
"I don't say you have made a bad job of it, my dear," said Mrs.
Grantly. "But it's past eight, and you must be terribly in want of
your dinner. Had you not better go up and dress?"
In the evening the plan of the future campaign was arranged between
them. The archdeacon would not write to his son at all. In passing
through Barchester he had abandoned his idea of despatching a note
from the hotel, feeling that such a note as would be required was
not easily written in a hurry. Mrs. Grantly would now write to her
son, telling him that circumstances had changed, that it would be
altogether unnecessary for him to sell his furniture, and begging
him to come over and see his father without a day's delay. She wrote
her letter that night, and read to the archdeacon all that she had
written,--with the exception of the postscript:--"You may be quite
sure that there will be no unpleasantness with your father." That was
the postscript which was not communicated to the archdeacon.
On the third day after that Henry Grantly did come over to Plumstead.
His mother in her letter to him had not explained how it had come to
pass that the sale of his furniture would be unnecessary. His father
had given him to understand distinctly that his income would be
withdrawn from him unless he would express his intention of giving
up Miss Crawley; and it had been admitted among them all that Cosby
Lodge must be abandoned if this were done. He certainly would not
give up Grace Crawley. Sooner than that, he would give up every
stick in his possession, and go and live in New Zealand if it were
necessary. Not only had Grace's conduct to him made him thus firm,
but the natural bent of his own disposition had tended that way also.
His father had attempted to dictate to him, and sooner than submit to
that he would sell the coat off his back. Had his father confined his
opposition to advice, and had Miss Crawley been less firm in her view
of her duty, the major might have been less firm also. But things
had so gone that he was determined to be fixed as granite. If others
would not be moved from their resolves, neither would he. Such being
the state of his mind, he could not understand why he was thus
summoned to Plumstead. He had already written over to Pau about his
house, and it was well that he should, at any rate, see his mother
before he started. He was willing, therefore, to go to Plumstead, but
he took no steps as to the withdrawal of those auctioneer's bills to
which the archdeacon so strongly objected. When he drove into the
rectory yard, his father was standing there before him. "Henry," he
said, "I am very glad to see you. I am very much obliged to you for
coming." Then Henry got out of his cart and shook hands with his
father, and the archdeacon began to talk about the weather. "Your
mother has gone into Barchester to see your grandfather," said the
archdeacon. "If you are not tired, we might as well take a walk.
I want to go up as far as Flurry's cottage." The major of course
declared that he was not at all tired, and that he should be
delighted of all things to go up and see old Flurry, and thus they
started. Young Grantly had not even been into the house before he
left the yard with his father. Of course, he was thinking of the
coming sale at Cosby Lodge, and of his future life at Pau, and of his
injured position in the world. There would be no longer any occasion
for him to be solicitous as to the Plumstead foxes. Of course these
things were in his mind; but he could not begin to speak of them till
his father did so. "I'm afraid your grandfather is not very strong,"
said the archdeacon, shaking his head. "I fear he won't be with us
very long."
"Is it so bad as that, sir?"
"Well, you know, he is an old man, Henry; and he was always somewhat
old for his age. He will be eighty, if he lives two years longer,
I think. But he'll never reach eighty;--never. You must go and see
him before you go back home; you must indeed." The major, of course,
promised that he would see his grandfather, and the archdeacon told
his son how nearly the old man had fallen in the passage between the
cathedral and the deanery. In this way they had nearly made their way
up to the gamekeeper's cottage without a word of reference to any
subject that touched upon the matter of which each of them was of
course thinking. Whether the major intended to remain at home or to
live at Pau, the subject of Mr. Harding's health was a natural topic
for conversation between him and his father; but when his father
stopped suddenly, and began to tell him how a fox had been trapped on
Darvell's farm,--"and of course it was a Plumstead fox,--there can be
no doubt that Flurry is right about that;"--when the archdeacon spoke
of this iniquity with much warmth, and told his son how he had at
once written off to Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, and how Mr. Thorne
had declared that he didn't believe a word of it, and how Flurry
had produced the pad of the fox, with the marks of the trap on the
skin,--then the son began to feel that the ground was becoming very
warm, and that he could not go on much longer without rushing into
details about Grace Crawley. "I've no more doubt that it was one of
our foxes than that I stand here," said the archdeacon.
"It doesn't matter where the fox was bred. It shouldn't have been
trapped," said the major.
"Of course not," said the archdeacon, indignantly. I wonder whether
he would have been so keen had a Romanist priest come into his
parish, and turned one of his Protestants into a Papist?
Then Flurry came up, and produced the identical pad out of his
pocket. "I don't suppose it was intended," said the major, looking
at the interesting relic with scrutinizing eyes. "I suppose it was
caught in a rabbit-trap,--eh, Flurry?"
"I don't see what right a man has with traps at all, when gentlemen
is particular about their foxes," said Flurry. "Of course they'd call
it rabbits."
"I never liked that man on Darvell's farm," said the archdeacon.
"Nor I either," said Flurry. "No farmer ought to be on that land
who don't have a horse of his own. And if I war Squire Thorne, I
wouldn't have no farmer there who didn't keep no horse. When a farmer
has a horse of his own, and follies the hounds, there ain't no
rabbit-traps;--never. How does that come about, Mr. Henry? Rabbits! I
know very well what rabbits is!"
Mr. Henry shook his head, and turned away, and the archdeacon
followed him. There was an hypocrisy about this pretended care for
the foxes which displeased the major. He could not, of course, tell
his father that the foxes were no longer anything to him; but yet
he must make it understood that such was his conviction. His mother
had written to him, saying that the sale of furniture need not take
place. It might be all very well for his mother to say that, or for
his father; but, after what had taken place, he could consent to
remain in England on no other understanding than that his income
should be made permanent to him. Such permanence must not be any
longer dependent on his father's caprice. In these days he had come
to be somewhat in love with poverty and Pau, and had been feeding on
the luxury of his grievance. There is, perhaps, nothing so pleasant
as the preparation for self-sacrifice. To give up Cosby Lodge and
the foxes, to marry a penniless wife, and go and live at Pau on six
or seven hundred a year, seemed just now to Major Grantly to be a
fine thing, and he did not intend to abandon this fine thing without
receiving a very clear reason for doing so. "I can't quite understand
Thorne," said the archdeacon. "He used to be so particular about the
foxes, and I don't suppose that a country gentleman will change his
ideas because he has given up hunting himself."
"Mr. Thorne never thought much of Flurry," said Henry Grantly, with
his mind intent upon Pau and his grievance.
"He might take my word at any rate," said the archdeacon.
It was a known fact that the archdeacon's solicitude about the
Plumstead covers was wholly on behalf of his son the major. The major
himself knew this thoroughly, and felt that his father's present
special anxiety was intended as a corroboration of the tidings
conveyed in his mother's letter. Every word so uttered was meant
to have reference to his son's future residence in the country.
"Father," he said, turning round shortly, and standing before the
archdeacon in the pathway, "I think you are quite right about the
covers. I feel sure that every gentleman who preserves a fox does
good to the country. I am sorry that I shall not have a closer
interest in the matter myself."
"Why shouldn't you have a closer interest in it?" said the
archdeacon.
"Because I shall be living abroad."
"You got your mother's letter?"
"Yes; I got my mother's letter."
"Did she not tell you that you can stay where you are?"
"Yes, she said so. But, to tell you the truth, sir, I do not like the
risk of living beyond my assured income." "But if I justify it?"
"I do not wish to complain, sir, but you have made me understand that
you can, and that in certain circumstances you will, at a moment,
withdraw what you give me. Since this was said to me, I have felt
myself to be unsafe in such a house as Cosby Lodge."
The archdeacon did not know how to explain. He had intended that
the real explanation should be given by Mrs. Grantly, and had been
anxious to return to his old relations with his son without any exact
terms on his own part. But his son was, as he thought, awkward, and
would drive him to some speech that was unnecessary. "You need not be
unsafe there at all," he said, half angrily.
"I must be unsafe if I am not sure of my income."
"Your income is not in any danger. But you had better speak to your
mother about it. For myself, I think I may say that I have never yet
behaved to any of you with harshness. A son should, at any rate,
not be offended because a father thinks that he is entitled to some
consideration for what he does."
"There are some points on which a son cannot give way even to his
father, sir."
"You had better speak to your mother, Henry. She will explain to you
what has taken place. Look at that plantation. You don't remember it,
but every tree there was planted since you were born. I bought that
farm from old Mr. Thorne, when he was purchasing St. Ewold's Downs,
and it was the first bit of land I ever had of my own."
"That is not in Plumstead, I think?"
"No: this is Plumstead, where we stand, but that's in Eiderdown. The
parishes run in and out here. I never bought any other land as cheap
as I bought that."
"And did old Thorne make a good purchase at St. Ewold's?"
"Yes, I fancy he did. It gave him the whole of the parish, which was
a great thing. It is astonishing how land has risen in value since
that, and yet rents are not so very much higher. They who buy land
now can't have above two-and-a-half for their money."
"I wonder people are so fond of land," said the major.
"It is a comfortable feeling to know that you stand on your own
ground. Land is about the only thing that can't fly away. And then,
you see, land gives so much more than the rent. It gives position and
influence and political power, to say nothing about the game. We'll
go back now. I daresay your mother will be at home by this time."
The archdeacon was striving to teach a great lesson to his son when
he thus spoke of the pleasure which a man feels when he stands upon
his own ground. He was bidding his son to understand how great was
the position of an heir to a landed property, and how small the
position of a man depending on what Dr. Grantly himself would have
called a scratch income,--an income made up of a few odds and ends,
a share or two in this company and a share or two in that, a slight
venture in foreign stocks, a small mortgage and such like convenient
but uninfluential driblets. A man, no doubt, may live at Pau on
driblets; may pay his way and drink his bottle of cheap wine, and
enjoy life after a fashion while reading Galignani and looking at the
mountains. But,--as it seemed to the archdeacon,--when there was a
choice between this kind of thing, and fox-covers at Plumstead, and a
seat among the magistrates of Barsetshire, and an establishment full
of horses, beeves, swine, carriages, and hayricks, a man brought up
as his son had been brought up ought not to be very long in choosing.
It never entered into the archdeacon's mind that he was tempting his
son; but Henry Grantly felt that he was having the good things of the
world shown to him, and that he was being told that they should be
his--for a consideration.
The major, in his present mood, looked at the matter from his own
point of view, and determined that the consideration was too high.
He was pledged not to give up Grace Crawley, and he would not yield
on that point, though he might be tempted by all the fox-covers in
Barsetshire. At this moment he did not know how far his father was
prepared to yield, or how far it was expected that he should yield
himself. He was told that he had to speak to his mother. He would
speak to his mother, but, in the meantime, he could not bring himself
to make a comfortable answer to his father's eloquent praise of
landed property. He could not allow himself to be enthusiastic on the
matter till he knew what was expected of him if he chose to submit to
be made a British squire. At present Galignani and the mountains had
their charms for him. There was, therefore, but little conversation
between the father and the son as they walked back to the rectory.
Late that night the major heard the whole story from his mother.
Gradually, and as though unintentionally, Mrs. Grantly told him all
she knew of the archdeacon's visit to Framley. Mrs. Grantly was quite
as anxious as was her husband to keep her son at home, and therefore
she omitted in her story those little sneers against Grace which she
herself had been tempted to make by the archdeacon's fervour in the
girl's favour. The major said as little as was possible while he was
being told of his father's adventure, and expressed neither anger
nor satisfaction till he had been made thoroughly to understand that
Grace had pledged herself not to marry him as long as any suspicion
should rest upon her father's name.
"Your father is quite satisfied with her," said Mrs. Grantly. "He
thinks that she is behaving very well."
"My father had no right to exact such a pledge."
"But she made it of her own accord. She was the first to speak about
Mr. Crawley's supposed guilt. Your father never mentioned it."
"He must have led to it; and I think he had no right to do so. He had
no right to go to her at all."
"Now don't be foolish, Henry."
"I don't see that I am foolish."
"Yes, you are. A man is foolish if he won't take what he wants
without asking exactly how he is to come by it. That your father
should be anxious is the most natural thing in the world. You know
how high he has always held his own head, and how much he thinks
about the characters and position of clergymen. It is not surprising
that he should dislike the idea of such a marriage."
"Grace Crawley would disgrace no family," said the lover.
"That's all very well for you to say, and I'll take your word that it
is so;--that is as far as the young lady goes herself. And there's
your father almost as much in love with her as you are. I don't know
what you would have?"
"I would be left alone."
"But what harm has been done you? From what you yourself have told
me, I know that Miss Crawley has said the same thing to you that she
has said to your father. You can't but admire her for the feeling."
"I admire her for everything."
"Very well. We don't say anything against that."
"And I don't mean to give her up."
"Very well again. Let us hope that Mr. Crawley will be acquitted, and
then all will be right. Your father never goes back from his promise.
He is always better than his word. You'll find that if Mr. Crawley
is acquitted, or if he escapes in any way, your father will only be
happy of an excuse to make much of the young lady. You should not be
hard on him, Henry. Don't you see that it is his one great desire to
keep you near to him? The sight of those odious bills nearly broke
his heart."
"Then why did he threaten me?"
"Henry, you are obstinate."
"I am not obstinate, mother."
"Yes, you are. You remember nothing, and you forget nothing. You
expect everything to be made smooth for you, and will do nothing
towards making things smooth for anybody else. You ought to promise
to give up the sale. If the worst came to the worst, your father
would not let you suffer in pocket for yielding to him in so much."
"If the worst comes to the worst, I wish to take nothing from my
father."
"You won't put off the sale, then?"
The son paused a moment before he answered his mother, thinking over
all the circumstances of his position. "I cannot do so as long as I
am subject to my father's threat," he said at last. "What took place
between my father and Miss Crawley can go for nothing with me. He has
told me that his allowance to me is to be withdrawn. Let him tell me
that he has reconsidered the matter."
"But he has not withdrawn it. The last quarter was paid to your
account only the other day. He does not mean to withdraw it."
"Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living at
Cosby Lodge does not depend on my marriage,--that my income will be
continued to me whether I marry or no, and I'll arrange matters with
the auctioneer to-morrow. You can't suppose that I should prefer to
live in France."
"Henry, you are too hard on your father."
"I think, mother, he has been too hard upon me."
"It is you that are to blame now. I tell you plainly that that is my
opinion. If evil comes of it, it will be your own fault."
"If evil come of it I must bear it."
"A son ought to give up something to his father;--especially to a
father so indulgent as yours."
But it was of no use. And Mrs. Grantly when she went to her bed could
only lament in her own mind over what, in discussing the matter
afterwards with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men.
"They are as like each other as two peas," she said, "and though each
of them wished to be generous, neither of them would condescend to be
just." Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much said
on the subject between the archdeacon and his wife before they met
their son at breakfast; but neither at breakfast nor afterwards was
there a word said between the father and son that had the slightest
reference to the subject in dispute between them. The archdeacon made
no more speeches in favour of land, nor did he revert to the foxes.
He was very civil to his son;--too civil by half, as Mrs. Grantly
continued to say to herself. And then the major drove himself away
in his cart, going through Barchester, so that he might see his
grandfather. When he wished his father good-by, the archdeacon shook
hands with him, and said something about the chance of rain. Had he
not better take the big umbrella? The major thanked him courteously,
and said that he did not think it would rain. Then he was gone. "Upon
his own head be it," said the archdeacon when his son's step was
heard in the passage leading to the back-yard. Then Mrs. Grantly got
up quietly and followed her son. She found him settling himself in
his dog-cart, while the servant who was to accompany him was still
at the horse's head. She went up close to him, and, standing by the
wheel of the gig, whispered a word or two into his ear. "If you love
me, Henry, you will postpone the sale. Do it for my sake." There came
across his face a look of great pain, but he answered her not a word.
The archdeacon was walking about the room striking one hand open
with the other closed, clearly in a tumult of anger, when his wife
returned to him. "I have done all that I can," he said,--"all that I
can; more, indeed, than was becoming for me. Upon his own head be it.
Upon his own head be it!"
"What is it that you fear?" she asked.
"I fear nothing. But if he chooses to sell his things at Cosby Lodge
he must abide the consequences. They shall not be replaced with my
money."
"What will it matter if he does sell them?"
"Matter! Do you think there is a single person in the county who will
not know that his doing so is a sign that he has quarrelled with me?"
"But he has not quarrelled with you."
"I can tell you then, that in that case I shall have quarrelled with
him! I have not been a hard father, but there are some things which a
man cannot bear. Of course you will take his part."
"I am taking no part. I only want to see peace between you."
"Peace!--yes; peace indeed. I am to yield in everything. I am to be
nobody. Look here;--as sure as ever an auctioneer's hammer is raised
at Cosby Lodge, I will alter the settlement of the property. Every
acre shall belong to Charles. There is my word for it." The poor
woman had nothing more to say;--nothing more to say at that moment.
She thought that at the present conjuncture her husband was less in
the wrong than her son, but she could not tell him so lest she should
strengthen him in his wrath.
Henry Grantly found his grandfather in bed, with Posy seated on the
bed beside him. "My father told me that you were not quite well, and
I thought that I would look in," said the major.
"Thank you, my dear;--it is very good of you. There is not much the
matter with me, but I am not quite so strong as I was once." And the
old man smiled as he held his grandson's hand.
"And how is cousin Posy?" said the major.
"Posy is quite well;--isn't she, my darling?" said the old man.
"Grandpa doesn't go to the cathedral now," said Posy; "so I come in
to talk to him. Don't I, grandpa?"
"And to play cat's-cradle;--only we have not had any cat's-cradle
this morning,--have we, Posy?"
"Mrs. Baxter told me not to play this morning, because it's cold for
grandpa to sit up in bed," said Posy.
When the major had been there about twenty minutes he was preparing
to take his leave,--but Mr. Harding, bidding Posy to go out of the
room, told his grandson that he had a word to say to him. "I don't
like to interfere, Henry," he said, "but I am afraid that things are
not quite smooth at Plumstead."
"There is nothing wrong between me and my mother," said the major.
"God forbid that there should be; but, my dear boy, don't let there
be anything wrong between you and your father. He is a good man, and
the time will come when you will be proud of his memory."
"I am proud of him now."
"Then be gentle with him,--and submit yourself. I am an old man
now,--very fast going away from all those I love here. But I am happy
in leaving my children because they have ever been gentle to me and
kind. If I am permitted to remember them whither I am going, my
thoughts of them will all be pleasant. Should it not be much to them
that they have made my death-bed happy?"
The major could not but tell himself that Mr. Harding had been a man
easy to please, easy to satisfy, and, in that respect, very different
from his father. But of course he said nothing of this. "I will do my
best," he replied.
"Do, my boy. Honour thy father,--that thy days may be long in the
land."
[Illustration: "Honour thy Father,--that thy days may be long in the
Land."]
It seemed to the major as he drove away from Barchester that
everybody was against him; and yet he was sure that he himself was
right. He could not give up Grace Crawley; and unless he were to do
so he could not live at Cosby Lodge.