"IT'S DOGGED AS DOES IT."
In accordance with the resolution to which the clerical commission
had come on the first day of their sitting, Dr. Tempest wrote the
following letter to Mr. Crawley:--
Rectory, Silverbridge, April 9, 186--.
DEAR SIR,--
I have been given to understand that you have been
informed that the Bishop of Barchester has appointed a
commission of clergymen of the diocese to make inquiry
respecting certain accusations which, to the great regret
of us all, have been made against you, in respect to a
cheque for twenty pounds which was passed by you to a
tradesman in this town. The clergymen appointed to form
this commission are Mr. Oriel, the rector of Greshamsbury,
Mr. Robarts, the vicar of Framley, Mr. Quiverful, the
warden of Hiram's Hospital at Barchester, Mr. Thumble, a
clergyman established in that city, and myself. We held
our first meeting on last Monday, and I now write to you
in compliance with a resolution to which we then came.
Before taking any other steps we thought it best to ask
you to attend us here on next Monday, at two o'clock, and
I beg that you will accept this letter as an invitation to
that effect.
We are, of course, aware that you are about to stand your
trial at the next assizes for the offence in question. I
beg you to understand that I do not express any opinion as
to your guilt. But I think it right to point out to you
that in the event of a jury finding an adverse verdict,
the bishop might be placed in great difficulty unless he
were fortified with the opinion of a commission formed
from your fellow clerical labourers in the diocese. Should
such adverse verdict unfortunately be given, the bishop
would hardly be justified in allowing a clergyman placed
as you then would be placed, to return to his cure after
the expiration of such punishment as the judge might
award, without a further decision from an ecclesiastical
court. This decision he could only obtain by proceeding
against you under the Act in reference to clerical
offences, which empowers him as bishop of the diocese to
bring you before the Court of Arches,--unless you would
think well to submit yourself entirely to his judgment.
You will, I think, understand what I mean. The judge at
assizes might find it his duty to imprison a clergyman
for a month,--regarding that clergyman simply as he would
regard any other person found guilty by a jury and thus
made subject to his judgment,--and might do this for an
offence which the ecclesiastical judge would find himself
obliged to visit with the severer sentence of prolonged
suspension, or even with deprivation.
We are, however, clearly of opinion that should the jury
find themselves able to acquit you, no further action
whatsoever should be taken. In such case we think that the
bishop may regard your innocence to be fully established,
and in such case we shall recommend his lordship to look
upon the matter as altogether at an end. I can assure you
that in such case I shall so regard it myself.
You will perceive that, as a consequence of this
resolution, to which we have already come, we are
not minded to make any inquiries ourselves into the
circumstances of your alleged guilt, till the verdict of
the jury shall be given. If you are acquitted, our course
will be clear. But should you be convicted, we must in
that case advise the bishop to take the proceedings to
which I have alluded, or to abstain from taking them. We
wish to ask you whether, now that our opinion has been
conveyed to you, you will be willing to submit to the
bishop's decision, in the event of an adverse verdict
being given by the jury; and we think that it will be
better for us all that you should meet us here at the hour
I have named on Monday next, the 15th instant. It is not
our intention to make any report to the bishop until the
trial shall be over.
I have the honour to be,
My dear sir,
Your very obedient servant,
MORTIMER TEMPEST.
The Rev. Josiah Crawley,
Hogglestock.
In the same envelope Dr. Tempest sent a short private note, in which
he said that he should be very happy to see Mr. Crawley at half-past
one on the Monday named, that luncheon would be ready at that hour,
and that, as Mr. Crawley's attendance was required on public grounds,
he would take care that a carriage was provided for the day.
Mr. Crawley received this letter in his wife's presence, and read
it in silence. Mrs. Crawley saw that he paid close attention to it,
and was sure,--she felt that she was sure,--that it referred in some
way to the terrible subject of the cheque for twenty pounds. Indeed,
everything that came into the house, almost every word spoken there,
and every thought that came into the breasts of any of the family,
had more or less reference to the coming trial. How could it be
otherwise? There was ruin coming on them all,--ruin and complete
disgrace coming on father, mother, and children! To have been accused
itself was very bad; but now it seemed to be the opinion of every one
that the verdict must be against the man. Mrs. Crawley herself, who
was perfectly sure of her husband's innocence before God, believed
that the jury would find him guilty,--and believed also that he had
become possessed of the money in some manner that would have been
dishonest, had he not been so different from other people as to be
entitled to be considered innocent where another man would have been
plainly guilty. She was full of the cheque for twenty pounds, and of
its results. When, therefore, he had read the letter through a second
time, and even then had spoken no word about it, of course she could
not refrain from questioning him. "My love," she said, "what is the
letter?"
"It is on business," he answered.
She was silent for a moment before she spoke again. "May I not know
the business?"
"No," said he; "not at present."
"Is it from the bishop?"
"Have I not answered you? Have I not given you to understand that,
for a while at least, I would prefer to keep the contents of
this epistle to myself?" Then he looked at her very sternly, and
afterwards turned his eyes upon the fireplace and gazed at the fire,
as though he were striving to read there something of his future
fate. She did not much regard the severity of his speech. That, too,
like the taking of the cheque itself, was to be forgiven him, because
he was different from other men. His black mood had come upon him,
and everything was to be forgiven him now. He was as a child when
cutting his teeth. Let the poor wayward sufferer be ever so petulant,
the mother simply pities and loves him, and is never angry. "I beg
your pardon, Josiah," she said, "but I thought it would comfort you
to speak to me about it."
"It will not comfort me," he said. "Nothing comforts me. Nothing can
comfort me. Jane, give me my hat and my stick." His daughter brought
to him his hat and stick, and without another word he went out and
left them.
As a matter of course he turned his steps towards Hoggle End. When he
desired to be long absent from the house, he always went among the
brickmakers. His wife, as she stood at the window and watched the
direction in which he went, knew that he might be away for hours. The
only friends out of his own family with whom he ever spoke freely
were some of these rough parishioners. But he was not thinking of the
brickmakers when he started. He was simply desirous of again reading
Dr. Tempest's letter, and of considering it, in some spot where
no eye could see him. He walked away with long steps, regarding
nothing,--neither the ruts in the dirty lane, nor the young primroses
which were fast showing themselves on the banks, nor the gathering
clouds which might have told him of the coming rain. He went on for
a couple of miles, till he had nearly reached the outskirts of the
colony of Hoggle End, and then he sat himself down upon a gate. He
had not been there a minute before a few slow large drops began to
fall, but he was altogether too much wrapped up in his thoughts to
regard the rain. What answer should he make to this letter from the
man at Silverbridge?
The position of his own mind in reference to his own guilt or his
own innocence was very singular. It was simply the truth that he did
not know how the cheque had come to him. He did know that he had
blundered about it most egregiously, especially when he had averred
that this cheque for twenty pounds had been identical with a cheque
for another sum which had been given to him by Mr. Soames. He had
blundered since, in saying that the dean had given it to him. There
could be no doubt as to this, for the dean had denied that he had
done so. And he had come to think it very possible that he had indeed
picked the cheque up, and had afterwards used it, having deposited
it by some strange accident,--not knowing then what he was doing, or
what was the nature of the bit of paper in his hand,--with the notes
which he had accepted from the dean with so much reluctance, with
such an agony of spirit. In all these thoughts of his own about his
own doings, and his own position, he almost admitted to himself his
own insanity, his inability to manage his own affairs with that
degree of rational sequence which is taken for granted as belonging
to a man when he is made subject to criminal laws. As he puzzled
his brain in his efforts to create a memory as to the cheque, and
succeeded in bringing to his mind a recollection that he had once
known something about the cheque,--that the cheque had at one time
been the subject of a thought and of a resolution,--he admitted to
himself that in accordance with all law and all reason he must be
regarded as a thief. He had taken and used and spent that which he
ought to have known was not his own;--which he would have known
not to be his own but for some terrible incapacity with which God
had afflicted him. What then must be the result? His mind was
clear enough about this. If the jury could see everything and know
everything,--as he would wish that they should do; and if this
bishop's commission, and the bishop himself, and the Court of
Arches with its judge, could see and know everything; and if so
seeing and so knowing they could act with clear honesty and perfect
wisdom,--what would they do? They would declare of him that he was
not a thief, only because he was so muddy-minded, so addle-pated as
not to know the difference between meum and tuum! There could be no
other end to it, let all the lawyers and all the clergymen in England
put their wits to it. Though he knew himself to be muddy-minded and
addle-pated, he could see that. And could any one say of such a man
that he was fit to be the acting clergyman of a parish,--to have a
freehold possession in a parish as curer of men's souls! The bishop
was in the right of it, let him be ten times as mean a fellow as he
was.
And yet as he sat there on the gate, while the rain came down heavily
upon him, even when admitting the justice of the bishop, and the
truth of the verdict which the jury would no doubt give, and the
propriety of the action which that cold, reasonable, prosperous man
at Silverbridge would take, he pitied himself with a tenderness of
commiseration which knew no bounds. As for those belonging to him,
his wife and children, his pity for them was of a different kind. He
would have suffered any increase of suffering, could he by such agony
have released them. Dearly as he loved them, he would have severed
himself from them, had it been possible. Terrible thoughts as to
their fate had come into his mind in the worst moments of his
moodiness,--thoughts which he had had sufficient strength and
manliness to put away from him with a strong hand, lest they should
drive him to crime indeed; and these had come from the great pity
which he had felt for them. But the commiseration which he had felt
for himself had been different from this, and had mostly visited him
at times when that other pity was for the moment in abeyance. What
though he had taken the cheque, and spent the money though it was not
his? He might be guilty before the law, but he was not guilty before
God. There had never been a thought of theft in his mind, or a desire
to steal in his heart. He knew that well enough. No jury could make
him guilty of theft before God. And what though this mixture of guilt
and innocence had come from madness,--from madness which these courts
must recognize if they chose to find him innocent of the crime? In
spite of his aberrations of intellect, if there were any such, his
ministrations in his parish were good. Had he not preached fervently
and well,--preaching the true gospel? Had he not been very diligent
among his people, striving with all his might to lessen the ignorance
of the ignorant, and to gild with godliness the learning of the
instructed? Had he not been patient, enduring, instant, and in all
things amenable to the laws and regulations laid down by the Church
for his guidance in his duties as a parish clergyman? Who could point
out in what he had been astray, or where he had gone amiss? But for
the work which he had done with so much zeal the Church which he
served had paid him so miserable a pittance that, though life and
soul had been kept together, the reason, or a fragment of the reason,
had at moments escaped from his keeping in the scramble. Hence it was
that this terrible calamity had fallen upon him! Who had been tried
as he had been tried, and had gone through such fire with less loss
of intellectual power than he had done? He was still a scholar,
though no brother scholar ever came near him, and would make
Greek iambics as he walked along the lanes. His memory was stored
with poetry, though no book ever came to his hands, except those
shorn and tattered volumes which lay upon his table. Old problems
in trigonometry were the pleasing relaxations of his mind, and
complications of figures were a delight to him. There was not one of
those prosperous clergymen around him, and who scorned him, whom he
could not have instructed in Hebrew. It was always a gratification to
him to remember that his old friend the dean was weak in his Hebrew.
He, with these acquirements, with these fitnesses, had been thrust
down to the ground,--to the very granite,--and because in that harsh
heartless thrusting his intellect had for moments wavered as to
common things, cleaving still to all its grander, nobler possessions,
he was now to be rent in pieces and scattered to the winds, as being
altogether vile, worthless, and worse than worthless. It was thus
that he thought of himself, pitying himself, as he sat upon the gate,
while the rain fell ruthlessly on his shoulders.
He pitied himself with a commiseration that was sickly in spite
of its truth. It was the fault of the man that he was imbued too
strongly with self-consciousness. He could do a great thing or two.
He could keep up his courage in positions which would wash all
courage out of most men. He could tell the truth though truth should
ruin him. He could sacrifice all that he had to duty. He could do
justice though the heaven should fall. But he could not forget to pay
a tribute to himself for the greatness of his own actions; nor, when
accepting with an effort of meekness the small payment made by the
world to him, in return for his great works, could he forget the
great payments made to others for small work. It was not sufficient
for him to remember that he knew Hebrew, but he must remember also
that the dean did not.
Nevertheless, as he sat there under the rain, he made up his mind
with a clearness that certainly had in it nothing of that muddiness
of mind of which he had often accused himself. Indeed, the intellect
of this man was essentially clear. It was simply his memory that
would play him tricks,--his memory as to things which at the moment
were not important to him. The fact that the dean had given him money
was very important, and he remembered it well. But the amount of the
money, and its form, at a moment in which he had flattered himself
that he might have strength to leave it unused, had not been
important to him. Now, he resolved that he would go to Dr. Tempest,
and that he would tell Dr. Tempest that there was no occasion for
any further inquiry. He would submit to the bishop, let the bishop's
decision be what it might. Things were different since the day on
which he had refused Mr. Thumble admission to his pulpit. At that
time people believed him to be innocent, and he so believed of
himself. Now, people believed him to be guilty, and it could not
be right that a man held in such slight esteem should exercise the
functions of a parish priest, let his own opinion of himself be what
it might. He would submit himself, and go anywhere,--to the galleys
or the workhouse, if they wished it. As for his wife and children,
they would, he said to himself, be better without him than with him.
The world would never be so hard to a woman or to children as it had
been to him.
He was sitting saturated with rain,--saturated also with
thinking,--and quite unobservant of anything around him, when he
was accosted by an old man from Hoggle End, with whom he was well
acquainted. "Thee be wat, Master Crawley," said the old man.
"Wet!" said Crawley, recalled suddenly back to the realities of life.
"Well,--yes. I am wet. That's because it's raining."
"Thee be teeming o' wat. Hadn't thee better go whome?"
"And are not you wet also?" said Mr. Crawley, looking at the old man,
who had been at work in the brickfield, and who was soaked with mire,
and from whom there seemed to come a steam of muddy mist.
"Is it me, yer reverence? I'm wat in course. The loikes of us is
always wat,--that is barring the insides of us. It comes to us
natural to have the rheumatics. How is one of us to help hisself
against having on 'em? But there ain't no call for the loikes of you
to have the rheumatics."
"My friend," said Crawley, who was now standing on the road,--and
as he spoke he put out his arm and took the brickmaker by the hand,
"there is a worse complaint than rheumatism,--there is, indeed."
"There's what they calls the collerer," said Giles Hoggett, looking
up into Mr. Crawley's face. "That ain't a got a hold of yer?"
"Ay, and worse than the cholera. A man is killed all over when he is
struck in his pride;--and yet he lives."
"Maybe that's bad enough too," said Giles, with his hand still held
by the other.
"It is bad enough," said Mr. Crawley, striking his breast with his
left hand. "It is bad enough."
"Tell 'ee what, Master Crawley;--and yer reverence mustn't think as
I means to be preaching; there ain't nowt a man can't bear if he'll
only be dogged. You go whome, Master Crawley, and think o' that,
and maybe it'll do ye a good yet. It's dogged as does it. It ain't
thinking about it." Then Giles Hoggett withdrew his hand from the
clergyman's, and walked away towards his home at Hoggle End. Mr.
Crawley also turned homewards, and as he made his way through the
lanes, he repeated to himself Giles Hoggett's words. "It's dogged as
does it. It's not thinking about it."
[Illustration: "It's dogged as does it."]
He did not say a word to his wife on that afternoon about Dr.
Tempest; and she was so much taken up with his outward condition
when he returned, as almost to have forgotten the letter. He allowed
himself, but barely allowed himself, to be made dry, and then for
the remainder of the day applied himself to learn the lesson which
Hoggett had endeavoured to teach him. But the learning of it was not
easy, and hardly became more easy when he had worked the problem out
in his own mind, and discovered that the brickmaker's doggedness
simply meant self-abnegation;--that a man should force himself to
endure anything that might be sent upon him, not only without outward
grumbling, but also without grumbling inwardly.
Early on the next morning, he told his wife that he was going into
Silverbridge. "It is that letter,--the letter which I got yesterday
that calls me," he said. And then he handed her the letter as to
which he had refused to speak to her on the preceding day.
"But this speaks of your going next Monday, Josiah," said Mrs.
Crawley.
"I find it to be more suitable that I should go to-day," said he.
"Some duty I do owe in this matter, both to the bishop, and to Dr.
Tempest, who, after a fashion, is, as regards my present business,
the bishop's representative. But I do not perceive that I owe it as a
duty to either to obey implicitly their injunctions, and I will not
submit myself to the cross-questionings of the man Thumble. As I am
purposed at present I shall express my willingness to give up the
parish."
"Give up the parish altogether?"
"Yes, altogether." As he spoke he clasped both his hands together,
and having held them for a moment on high, allowed them to fall thus
clasped before him. "I cannot give it up in part; I cannot abandon
the duties and reserve the honorarium. Nor would I if I could."
"I did not mean that, Josiah. But pray think of it before you speak."
"I have thought of it, and I will think of it. Farewell, my dear."
Then he came up to her and kissed her, and started on his journey on
foot to Silverbridge.
It was about noon when he reached Silverbridge, and he was told that
Doctor Tempest was at home. The servant asked him for a card. "I have
no card," said Mr. Crawley, "but I will write my name for your behoof
if your master's hospitality will allow me paper and pencil." The
name was written, and as Crawley waited in the drawing-room he spent
his time in hating Dr. Tempest because the door had been opened by
a man-servant dressed in black. Had the man been in livery he would
have hated Dr. Tempest all the same. And he would have hated him a
little had the door been opened even by a smart maid.
"Your letter came to hand yesterday morning, Dr. Tempest," said Mr.
Crawley, still standing, though the doctor had pointed to a chair for
him after shaking hands with him; "and having given yesterday to the
consideration of it, with what judgment I have been able to exercise,
I have felt it to be incumbent upon me to wait upon you without
further delay, as by doing so I may perhaps assist your views and
save labour to those gentlemen who are joined with you in this
commission of which you have spoken. To some of them it may possibly
be troublesome that they should be brought together here on next
Monday."
Dr. Tempest had been looking at him during this speech, and could
see by his shoes and trowsers that he had walked from Hogglestock to
Silverbridge. "Mr. Crawley, will you not sit down?" said he, and then
he rang his bell. Mr. Crawley sat down, not on the chair indicated,
but on one further removed and at the other side of the table. When
the servant came,--the objectionable butler in black clothes that
were so much smarter than Mr. Crawley's own,--his master's orders
were communicated without any audible word, and the man returned with
a decanter and wine-glasses.
"After your walk, Mr. Crawley," said Dr. Tempest, getting up from his
seat to pour out the wine.
"None, I thank you."
"Pray let me persuade you. I know the length of the miles so well."
"I will take none, if you please, sir," said Mr. Crawley.
"Now, Mr. Crawley," said Dr. Tempest, "do let me speak to you as a
friend. You have walked eight miles, and are going to talk to me on a
subject which is of vital importance to yourself. I won't discuss it
unless you'll take a glass of wine and a biscuit."
"Dr. Tempest!"
"I'm quite in earnest. I won't. If you do as I ask you, you shall
talk to me till dinner-time, if you like it. There. Now you may
begin."
Mr. Crawley did eat the biscuit and did drink the wine, and as he did
so, he acknowledged to himself that Dr. Tempest was right. He felt
that the wine made him stronger to speak. "I hardly know why you have
preferred to-day to next Monday," said Dr. Tempest; "but if anything
can be done by your presence here to-day, your time shall not be
thrown away."
"I have preferred to-day to Monday," said Crawley, "partly because I
would sooner talk to one man than to five."
"There is something in that, certainly," said Dr. Tempest.
"And as I have made up my mind as to the course of action which it
is my duty to take in the matter to which your letter of the 9th of
this month refers, there can be no reason why I should postpone the
declaration of my purpose. Dr. Tempest, I have determined to resign
my preferment at Hogglestock, and shall write to-day to the Dean of
Barchester, who is the patron, acquainting him of my purpose."
"You mean in the event--in the event--"
"I mean, sir, to do this without reference to any event that is
future. The bishop, Dr. Tempest, when I shall have been proved to be
a thief, shall have no trouble either in causing my suspension or
my deprivation. The name and fame of a parish clergyman should be
unstained. Mine have become foul with infamy. I will not wait to be
deprived by any court, by any bishop, or by any commission. I will
bow my head to that public opinion which has reached me, and I will
deprive myself."
He had got up from his chair, and was standing as he pronounced the
final sentence against himself. Dr. Tempest still remained seated in
his chair, looking at him, and for a few moments there was silence.
"You must not do that, Mr. Crawley," Dr. Tempest said at last.
"But I shall do it."
"Then the dean must not take your resignation. Speaking to you
frankly, I tell you that there is no prevailing opinion as to the
verdict which the jury may give."
"My decision has nothing to do with the jury's verdict. My
decision--"
"Stop a moment, Mr. Crawley. It is possible that you might say that
which should not be said."
"There is nothing to be said,--nothing which I could say, which
I would not say at the town cross if it were possible. As to this
money, I do not know whether I stole it or whether I did not."
"That is just what I have thought."
"It is so."
"Then you did not steal it. There can be no doubt about that."
"Thank you, Dr. Tempest. I thank you heartily for saying so much.
But, sir, you are not the jury. Nor, if you were, could you whitewash
me from the infamy which has been cast on me. Against the opinion
expressed at the beginning of these proceedings by the bishop of
the diocese,--or rather against that expressed by his wife,--I did
venture to make a stand. Neither the opinion which came from the
palace, nor the vehicle by which it was expressed, commanded my
respect. Since that, others have spoken to whom I feel myself bound
to yield;--yourself not the least among them, Dr. Tempest;--and to
them I shall yield. You may tell the Bishop of Barchester that I
shall at once resign the perpetual curacy of Hogglestock into the
hands of the Dean of Barchester, by whom I was appointed."
"No, Mr. Crawley; I shall not do that. I cannot control you, but
thinking you to be wrong, I shall not make that communication to the
bishop."
"Then I shall do so myself."
"And your wife, Mr. Crawley, and your children?"
At that moment Mr. Crawley called to mind the advice of his friend
Giles Hoggett. "It's dogged as does it." He certainly wanted
something very strong to sustain him in his difficulty. He found that
this reference to his wife and children required him to be dogged in
a very marked manner. "I can only trust that the wind may be tempered
to them," he said. "They will, indeed, be shorn lambs."
Dr. Tempest got up from his chair, and took a couple of turns about
the room before he spoke again. "Man," he said, addressing Mr.
Crawley with all his energy, "if you do this thing, you will then
at least be very wicked. If the jury find a verdict in your favour
you are safe, and the chances are that the verdict will be in your
favour."
"I care nothing now for the verdict," said Mr. Crawley.
"And you will turn your wife into the poorhouse for an idea!"
"It's dogged as does it," said Mr. Crawley to himself. "I have
thought of that," he said aloud. "That my wife is dear to me, and
that my children are dear, I will not deny. She was softly nurtured,
Dr. Tempest, and came from a house in which want was never known.
Since she has shared my board she has had some experience of that
nature. That I should have brought her to all this is very terrible
to me,--so terrible, that I often wonder how it is that I live. But,
sir, you will agree with me, that my duty as a clergyman is above
everything. I do not dare, even for their sake, to remain in the
parish. Good morning, Dr. Tempest." Dr. Tempest, finding that he
could not prevail with him, bade him adieu, feeling that any service
to the Crawleys within his power might be best done by intercession
with the bishop and with the dean.
Then Mr. Crawley walked back to Hogglestock, repeating to himself
Giles Hoggett's words, "It's dogged as does it."