THERE IS COMFORT AT PLUMSTEAD.
[Illustration]
Henry Grantly had written the following short letter to Mrs. Grantly
when he made up his mind to pull down the auctioneer's bills.
DEAR MOTHER,--
I have postponed the sale, not liking to refuse you
anything. As far as I can see, I shall still be forced to
leave Cosby Lodge, as I certainly shall do all I can to
make Grace Crawley my wife. I say this that there may be
no misunderstanding with my father. The auctioneer has
promised to have the bills removed.
Your affectionate son,
HENRY GRANTLY.
This had been written by the major on the Friday before Mr. Walker
had brought up to him the tidings of Mr. Toogood and Mrs. Arabin's
solution of the Crawley difficulty; but it did not reach Plumstead
till the following morning. Mrs. Grantly immediately took the good
news about the sale to her husband,--not of course showing him the
letter, being far too wise for that, and giving him credit for being
too wise to ask for it. "Henry has arranged with the auctioneer," she
said joyfully; "and the bills have been all pulled down."
"How do you know?"
"I've just heard from him. He has told me so. Come, my dear, let me
have the pleasure of hearing you say that things shall be pleasant
again between you and him. He has yielded."
"I don't see much yielding in it."
"He has done what you wanted. What more can he do?"
"I want him to come over here, and take an interest in things, and
not treat me as though I were nobody." Within an hour of this the
major had arrived at Plumstead, laden with the story of Mrs. Arabin
and the cheque, and of Mr. Crawley's innocence,--laden not only
with such tidings as he had received from Mr. Walker, but also with
further details, which he had received from Mr. Toogood. For he
had come through Barchester, and had seen Mr. Toogood on his way.
This was on the Saturday morning, and he had breakfasted with Mr.
Toogood at "The Dragon of Wantly." Mr. Toogood had told him of his
suspicions,--how the red-nosed man had been stopped, and had been
summoned as a witness for Mr. Crawley's trial,--and how he was now
under the surveillance of the police. Grantly had not cared very much
about the red-nosed man, confining his present solicitude to the
question whether Grace Crawley's father would certainly be shown to
have been innocent of the theft. "There's not a doubt about it,
major," said Mr. Toogood; "not a doubt on earth. But we'd better be a
little quiet till your aunt comes home,--just a little quiet. She'll
be here in a day or two, and I won't budge till she comes." In spite
of his desire for quiescence Mr. Toogood consented to a revelation
being at once made to the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly. "And I'll tell
you what, major; as soon as ever Mrs. Arabin is here, and has given
us her own word to act on, you and I will go over to Hogglestock and
astonish them. I should like to go myself, because, you see, Mrs.
Crawley is my cousin, and we have taken a little trouble about this
matter." To this the major assented; but he altogether declined to
assist in Mr. Toogood's speculations respecting the unfortunate Dan
Stringer. It was agreed between them that for the present no visit
should be made to the palace, as it was thought that Mr. Thumble had
better be allowed to do the Hogglestock duties on the next Sunday.
As matters went, however, Mr. Thumble did not do so. He had paid his
last visit to Hogglestock.
It may be as well to explain here that the unfortunate Mr. Snapper
was constrained to go out to Hogglestock on the Sunday which was now
approaching,--which fell out as follows. It might be all very well
for Mr. Toogood to arrange that he would not tell this person or that
person of the news which he had brought down from London; but as he
had told various people in Silverbridge, as he had told Mr. Soames,
and as he had told the police at Barchester, of course the tale found
its way to the palace. Mr. Thumble heard it, and having come by this
time thoroughly to hate Hogglestock and all that belonged to it, he
pleaded to Mr. Snapper that this report afforded ample reason why he
need not again visit that detestable parish. Mr. Snapper did not see
it in the same light. "You may be sure Mr. Crawley will not get into
the pulpit after his resignation, Mr. Thumble," said he.
"His resignation means nothing," said Thumble.
"It means a great deal," said Snapper; "and the duties must be
provided for."
"I won't provide for them," said Thumble; "and so you may tell the
bishop." In these days Mr. Thumble was very angry with the bishop,
for the bishop had not yet seen him since the death of Mrs. Proudie.
Mr. Snapper had no alternative but to go to the bishop. The bishop
in these days was very mild to those whom he saw, given but to few
words, and a little astray,--as though he had had one of his limbs
cut off,--as Mr. Snapper expressed it to Mrs. Snapper. "I shouldn't
wonder if he felt as though all his limbs were cut off," said Mrs.
Snapper; "you must give him time, and he'll come round by-and-by."
I am inclined to think that Mrs. Snapper's opinion of the bishop's
feelings and condition was correct. In his difficulty respecting
Hogglestock and Mr. Thumble Mr. Snapper went to the bishop, and spoke
perhaps a little harshly of Mr. Thumble.
"I think, upon the whole, Snapper, that you had better go yourself,"
said the bishop.
"Do you think so, my lord?" said Snapper. "It will be inconvenient."
"Everything is inconvenient; but you'd better go. And look here,
Snapper, if I were you, I wouldn't say anything out at Hogglestock
about the cheque. We don't know what it may come to yet." Mr.
Snapper, with a heavy heart, left his patron, not at all liking the
task that was before him. But his wife encouraged him to be obedient.
He was the owner of a one-horse carriage, and the work was not,
therefore, so hard to him as it would have been and had been to poor
Mr. Thumble. And, moreover, his wife promised to go with him. Mr.
Snapper and Mrs. Snapper did go over to Hogglestock, and the duty
was done. Mrs. Snapper spoke a word or two to Mrs. Crawley, and Mr.
Snapper spoke a word or two to Mr. Crawley; but not a word was said
about the new news as to Mr. Soames's cheque, which were now almost
current in Barchester. Indeed, no whisper about it had as yet reached
Hogglestock.
"One word with you, reverend sir," said Mr. Crawley to the chaplain,
as the latter was coming out of the church, "as to the parish work,
sir, during the week;--I should be glad if you would favour me with
your opinion."
"About what, Mr. Crawley?"
"Whether you think that I may be allowed, without scandal, to visit
the sick,--and to give instruction in the school."
"Surely;--surely, Mr. Crawley. Why not?"
"Mr. Thumble gave me to understand that the bishop was very
urgent that I should interfere in no way in the ministrations
of the parish. Twice did he enjoin on me that I should not
interfere,--unnecessarily, as it seemed to me."
"Quite unnecessary," said Mr. Snapper. "And the bishop will be
obliged to you, Mr. Crawley, if you'll just see that the things go on
all straight."
"I wish it were possible to know with accuracy what his idea of
straightness is," said Mr. Crawley to his wife. "It may be that
things are straight to him when they are buried as it were out of
sight, and put away without trouble. I hope it be not so with the
bishop." When he went into his school and remembered,--as he did
remember through every minute of his teaching--that he was to receive
no portion of the poor stipend which was allotted for the clerical
duties of the parish, he told himself that there was gross injustice
in the way in which things were being made straight at Hogglestock.
But we must go back to the major and to the archdeacon at
Plumstead,--in which comfortable parish things were generally made
straight more easily than at Hogglestock. Henry Grantly went over
from Barchester to Plumstead in a gig from the "Dragon," and made
his way at once into his father's study. The archdeacon was seated
there with sundry manuscripts before him, and with one half-finished
manuscript,--as was his wont on every Saturday morning. "Halloo,
Harry," he said. "I didn't expect you in the least." It was barely an
hour since he had told Mrs. Grantly that his complaint against his
son was that he wouldn't come and make himself comfortable at the
rectory.
"Father," said he, giving the archdeacon his hand, "you have heard
nothing yet about Mr. Crawley?"
"No," said the archdeacon jumping up; "nothing new;--what is it?"
Many ideas about Mr. Crawley at that moment flitted across the
archdeacon's mind. Could it be that the unfortunate man had committed
suicide, overcome by his troubles?
"It has all come out. He got the cheque from my aunt."
"From your aunt Eleanor?"
"Yes; from my aunt Eleanor. She has telegraphed over from Venice
to say that she gave the identical cheque to Crawley. That is all
we know at present,--except that she has written an account of the
matter to you, and that she will be here herself as quick as she can
come."
"Who got the message, Henry?"
"Crawley's lawyer,--a fellow named Toogood, a cousin of his
wife's;--a very decent fellow," added the major, remembering how
necessary it was that he should reconcile his father to all the
Crawley belongings. "He's to be over here on Monday, and then will
arrange what is to be done."
"Done in what way, Henry?"
"There's a great deal to be done yet. Crawley does not know himself
at this moment how the cheque got into his hands. He must be told,
and something must be settled about the living. They've taken the
living away from him among them. And then the indictment must be
quashed, or something of that kind done. Toogood has got hold of the
scoundrel at Barchester who really stole the cheque from Soames;--or
thinks that he has. It's that Dan Stringer."
"He's got hold of a regular scamp then. I never knew any good of Dan
Stringer," said the archdeacon.
Then Mrs. Grantly was told, and the whole story was repeated again,
with many expressions of commiseration in reference to all the
Crawleys. The archdeacon did not join in these at first, being rather
shy on that head. It was very hard for him to have to speak to his
son about the Crawleys as though they were people in all respects
estimable and well-conducted, and satisfactory. Mrs. Grantly
understood this so well, that every now and then she said some
half-laughing word respecting Mr. Crawley's peculiarities, feeling
that in this way she might ease her husband's difficulties. "He must
be the oddest man that ever lived," said Mrs. Grantly, "not to have
known where he got the cheque." The archdeacon shook his head, and
rubbed his hands as he walked about the room. "I suppose too much
learning has upset him," said the archdeacon. "They say he's not very
good at talking English, but put him on in Greek and he never stops."
The archdeacon was perfectly aware that he had to admit Mr. Crawley
to his goodwill, and that as for Grace Crawley,--it was essentially
necessary that she should be admitted to his heart of hearts. He had
promised as much. It must be acknowledged that Archdeacon Grantly
always kept his promises, and especially such promises as these. And
indeed it was the nature of the man that when he had been very angry
with those he loved, he should be unhappy until he had found some
escape from his anger. He could not endure to have to own himself
to have been in the wrong, but he could be content with a very
incomplete recognition of his having been in the right. The posters
had been pulled down and Mr. Crawley, as he was now told, had not
stolen the cheque. That was sufficient. If his son would only drink
a glass or two of wine with him comfortably, and talk dutifully
about the Plumstead foxes, all should be held to be right, and
Grace Crawley should be received with lavish paternal embraces. The
archdeacon had kissed Grace once, and felt that he could do so again
without an unpleasant strain upon his feelings.
"Say something to your father about the property after dinner," said
Mrs. Grantly to her son when they were alone together.
"About what property?"
"About this property, or any property; you know what I
mean;--something to show that you are interested about his affairs.
He is doing the best he can to make things right." After dinner, over
the claret, Mr. Thorne's terrible sin in reference to the trapping
of foxes was accordingly again brought up, and the archdeacon became
beautifully irate, and expressed his animosity,--which he did not in
the least feel,--against an old friend with an energy which would
have delighted his wife, if she could have heard him. "I shall tell
Thorne my mind, certainly. He and I are very old friends; we have
known each other all our lives; but I cannot put up with this kind
of thing,--and I will not. It's all because he's afraid of his own
gamekeeper." And yet the archdeacon had never ridden after a fox in
his life, and never meant to do so. Nor had he in truth been always
so very anxious that foxes should be found in his covers. That fox
which had been so fortunately trapped just outside the Plumstead
property afforded a most pleasant escape for the steam of his anger.
When he began to talk to his wife that evening about Mr. Thorne's
wicked gamekeeper, she was so sure that all was right, that she said
a word of her extreme desire to see Grace Crawley.
"If he is to marry her, we might as well have her over here," said
the archdeacon.
"That's just what I was thinking," said Mrs. Grantly. And thus things
at the rectory got themselves arranged.
On the Sunday morning the expected letter from Venice came to
hand, and was read on that morning very anxiously, not only by Mrs.
Grantly and the major, but by the archdeacon also, in spite of the
sanctity of the day. Indeed the archdeacon had been very stoutly
anti-sabbatarial when the question of stopping the Sunday post to
Plumstead had been mooted in the village, giving those who on that
occasion were the special friends of the postman to understand that
he considered them to be numskulls, and little better than idiots.
The postman, finding the parson to be against him, had seen that
there was no chance for him, and had allowed the matter to drop. Mrs.
Arabin's letter was long and eager, and full of repetitions, but it
did explain clearly to them the exact manner in which the cheque had
found its way into Mr. Crawley's hand. "Francis came up to me," she
said in her letter,--Francis being her husband, the dean,--"and asked
me for the money, which I had promised to make up in a packet. The
packet was not ready, and he would not wait, declaring that Mr.
Crawley was in such a flurry that he did not like to leave him. I
was therefore to bring it down to the door. I went to my desk, and
thinking that I could spare the twenty pounds as well as the fifty, I
put the cheque into the envelope, together with the notes, and handed
the packet to Francis at the door. I think I told Francis afterwards
that I put seventy pounds into the envelope, instead of fifty, but of
this I will not be sure. _At any rate, Mr. Crawley got Mr. Soames's
cheque from me._" These last words she underscored, and then went on
to explain how the cheque had been paid to her a short time before by
Dan Stringer.
"Then Toogood has been right about the fellow," said the archdeacon.
"I hope they'll hang him," said Mrs. Grantly. "He must have known all
the time what dreadful misery he was bringing upon this unfortunate
family."
"I don't suppose Dan Stringer cared much about that," said the major.
"Not a straw," said the archdeacon, and then all hurried off to
church; and the archdeacon preached the sermon in the fabrication of
which he had been interrupted by his son, and which therefore barely
enabled him to turn the quarter of an hour from the giving out of his
text. It was his constant practice to preach for full twenty minutes.
As Barchester lay on the direct road from Plumstead to Hogglestock,
it was thought well that word should be sent to Mr. Toogood, desiring
him not to come out to Plumstead on the Monday morning. Major Grantly
proposed to call for him at "The Dragon," and to take him on from
thence to Hogglestock. "You had better take your mother's horses all
through," said the archdeacon. The distance was very nearly twenty
miles, and it was felt both by the mother and the son, that the
archdeacon must be in a good humour when he made such a proposition
as that. It was not often that the rectory carriage-horses were
allowed to make long journeys. A run into Barchester and back, which
altogether was under ten miles, was generally the extent of their
work. "I meant to have posted from Barchester," said the major. "You
may as well take the horses through," said the archdeacon. "Your
mother will not want them. And I suppose you might as well bring your
friend Toogood back to dinner. We'll give him a bed."
"He must be a good sort of man," said Mrs. Grantly; "for I suppose he
has done all this for love?"
"Yes; and spent a lot of money out of his own pocket too!" said the
major enthusiastically. "And the joke of it is, that he has been
defending Crawley in Crawley's teeth. Mr. Crawley had refused to
employ counsel; but Toogood had made up his mind to have a barrister,
on purpose that there might be a fuss about it in court. He thought
that it would tell with the jury in Crawley's favour."
"Bring him here, and we'll hear all about that from himself," said
the archdeacon. The major, before he started, told his mother that he
should call at Framley Parsonage on his way back; but he said nothing
on this subject to his father.
"I'll write to her in a day or two," said Mrs. Grantly, "and we'll
have things settled pleasantly."