"Your daughter, madam, seems to be a little unwell," said Johnny.

Madalina kept her feet firm upon the ground, but did not for a moment

lose her purchase against Johnny's waistcoat. Her respirations came

very strong, but they came a good deal stronger when he mentioned the

fact that she was not so well as she might be.

"Unwell!" said Lady Demolines. And John was stricken at the moment

with a conviction that her ladyship must have passed the early years

of her life upon the stage. "You would trifle with me, sir. Beware

that you do not trifle with her,--with Madalina!"

"My mother," said Madalina; but still she did not give up her

purchase, and the voice seemed to come half from her and half from

Johnny. "Come to me, my mother." Then Lady Demolines hastened to her

daughter, and Madalina between them was gradually laid at her length

upon the sofa. The work of laying her out, however, was left almost

entirely to the stronger arm of Mr. John Eames. "Thanks, mother,"

said Madalina; but she had not as yet opened her eyes, even for an

instant. "Perhaps I had better go now," said Johnny. The old woman

looked at him with eyes which asked him whether "he didn't wish he

might get it" as plainly as though the words had been pronounced. "Of

course I'll wait if I can be of any service," said Johnny.

"I must know more of this, sir, before you leave the house," said

Lady Demolines. He saw that between them both there might probably

be a very bad quarter of an hour in store for him; but he swore to

himself that no union of dragon and tigress should extract from him

a word that could be taken as a promise of marriage.

The old woman was now kneeling by the head of the sofa, and Johnny

was standing close by her side. Suddenly Madalina opened her

eyes,--opened them very wide and gazed around her. Then slowly she

raised herself on the sofa, and turned her face first upon her mother

and then upon Johnny. "You here, mamma!" she said.

"Dearest one, I am near you. Be not afraid," said her ladyship.

"Afraid! Why should I be afraid? John! My own John! Mamma, he is my

own." And she put out her arms to him, as though calling to him to

come to her. Things were now very bad with John Eames,--so bad that

he would have given a considerable lump out of Lord De Guest's legacy

to be able to escape at once into the street. The power of a woman,

when she chooses to use it recklessly, is, for the moment, almost

unbounded.

"I hope you find yourself a little better," said John, struggling to

speak, as though he were not utterly crushed by the occasion.

Lady Demolines slowly raised herself from her knees, helping herself

with her hands against the shoulder of the sofa,--for though still

very clever, she was old and stiff,--and then offered both her hands

to Johnny. Johnny cautiously took one of them, finding himself unable

to decline them both. "My son!" she exclaimed; and before he knew

where he was the old woman had succeeded in kissing his nose and his

whiskers. "My son!" she said again.

Now the time had come for facing the dragon and the tigress in their

wrath. If they were to be faced at all, the time for facing them had

certainly arrived. I fear that John's heart sank low in his bosom

at that moment. "I don't quite understand," he said, almost in a

whisper. Madalina put out one arm towards him, and the fingers

trembled. Her lips were opened, and the white row of interior ivory

might be seen plainly; but at the present conjuncture of affairs

she spoke not a word. She spoke not a word; but her arm remained

stretched out towards him, and her fingers did not cease to tremble.

"You do not understand!" said Lady Demolines, drawing herself back,

and looking, in her short open cloak, like a knight who has donned

his cuirass, but has forgotten to put on his leg-gear. And she shook

the bright ribbons of her cap, as a knight in his wrath shakes the

crest of his helmet. "You do not understand, Mr. Eames! What is it,

sir, that you do not understand?"

"There is some misconception, I mean," said Johnny.

"Mother!" said Madalina, turning her eyes from her recreant lover to

her tender parent; trembling all over, but still keeping her hand

extended. "Mother!"

"My darling! But leave him to me, dearest. Compose yourself."

"'Twas the word that he said--this moment; before he pressed me to

his heart."

"I thought you were fainting," said Johnny.

"Sir!" And Lady Demolines, as she spoke, shook her crest, and glared

at him, and almost flew at him in her armour.

"It may be that nature has given way with me, and that I have been in

a dream," said Madalina.

"That which mine eyes saw was no dream," said Lady Demolines. "Mr.

Eames, I have given to you the sweetest name that can fall from an

old woman's lips. I have called you my son."

"Yes, you did, I know. But, as I said before, there is some mistake.

I know how proud I ought to be, and how happy, and all that kind of

thing. But--" Then there came a screech from Madalina, which would

have awakened the dead, had there been any dead in that house. The

page and the cook, however, took no notice of it, whether they were

awakened or not. And having screeched, Madalina stood erect upon the

floor, and she also glared upon her recreant lover. The dragon and

the tiger were there before him now, and he knew that it behoved him

to look to himself. As he had a battle to fight, might it not be best

to put a bold face upon it? "The truth is," said he, "that I don't

understand this kind of thing at all."

"Not understand it, sir?" said the dragon.

"Leave him to me, mother," said the tigress, shaking her head again,

but with a kind of shake differing from that which she had used

before. "This is my business, and I'll have it out for myself. If he

thinks I'm going to put up with his nonsense he's mistaken. I've been

straightforward and above board with you, Mr. Eames, and I expect to

be treated in the same way in return. Do you mean to tell my mother

that you deny that we are engaged?"

"Well; yes; I do. I'm very sorry, you know, if I seem to be

uncivil--"

"It's because I've no brother," said the tigress. "He thinks that

I have no man near me to protect me. But he shall find that I can

protect myself. John Eames, why are you treating me like this?"

"I shall consult my cousin the serjeant to-morrow," said the dragon.

"In the meantime he must remain in this house. I shall not allow the

front door to be unlocked for him."

This, I think, was the bitterest moment of all to Johnny. To be

confined all night in Lady Demolines' drawing-room would, of itself,

be an intolerable nuisance. And then the absurdity of the thing,

and the story that would go abroad! And what should he say to the

dragon's cousin the serjeant, if the serjeant should be brought upon

the field before he was able to escape from it? He did not know what

a serjeant might not do to him in such circumstances. There was one

thing no serjeant should do, and no dragon! Between them all they

should never force him to marry the tigress. At this moment Johnny

heard a tramp along the pavement, and he rushed to the window. Before

the dragon or even the tigress could arrest him, he had thrown up

the sash, and had appealed in his difficulty to the guardian of

the night. "I say, old fellow," said Johnny, "don't you stir from

that till I tell you." The policeman turned his bull's-eye upon the

window, and stood perfectly motionless. "Now, if you please, I'll say

good-night," said Johnny. But, as he spoke, he still held the open

window in his hand.

"What means this violence in my house?" said the dragon.

"Mamma, you had better let him go," said the tigress. "We shall know

where to find him."

"You will certainly be able to find me," said Johnny.

"Go," said the dragon, shaking her crest,--shaking all her armour at

him, "dastard, go!"

"Policeman," shouted Johnny, while he still held the open window in

his hand, "mind you don't stir till I come out." The bull's-eye was

shifted a little, but the policeman spoke never a word.

"I wish you good-night, Lady Demolines," said Johnny. "Good-night,

Miss Demolines." Then he left the window and made a run for the door.

But the dragon was there before him.

"Let him go, mamma," said the tigress as she closed the window. "We

shall only have a rumpus."

"That will be all," said Johnny. "There isn't the slightest use in

your trying to keep me here."

"And are we never to see you again?" said the tigress, almost

languishing again with one eye.

"Well; no. What would be the use? No man likes to be shut in, you

know."

"Go then," said the tigress; "but if you think that this is to be the

end of it, you'll find yourself wonderfully mistaken. You poor false,

drivelling creature! Lily Dale won't touch you with a pair of tongs.

It's no use your going to her."

"Go away, sir, this moment, and don't contaminate my room an instant

longer by your presence," said the dragon, who had observed through

the window that the bull's-eye was still in full force before the

house. Then John Eames withdrew, and descending into the hall made

his way in the dark to the front door. For aught he knew there might

still be treachery in regard to the lock; but his heart was comforted

as he heard the footfall of the policeman on the door-step. With much

fumbling he succeeded at last in turning the key and drawing the

bolt, and then he found himself at liberty in the street. Before he

even spoke a word to the policeman he went out into the road and

looked up at the window. He could just see the figure of the dragon's

helmet as she was closing the shutters. It was the last he ever saw

of Lady Demolines or of her daughter.

"What was it all about?" said the policeman.

"I don't know that I can just tell you," said Johnny, searching in

his pocket-book for half a sovereign which he tendered to the man.

"There was a little difficulty, and I'm obliged to you for waiting."

"There ain't nothing wrong?" said the man suspiciously, hesitating

for a moment before he accepted the coin.

"Nothing on earth. I'll wait with you, while you have the house

opened and inquire, if you wish it. The truth is somebody inside

refused to have the door opened, and I didn't want to stay there all

night."

"They're a rummy couple, if what I hear is true."

"They are a rummy couple," said Johnny.

"I suppose it's all right," said the policeman, taking the money. And

then John walked off home by himself, turning in his mind all the

circumstances of his connection with Miss Demolines. Taking his own

conduct as a whole, he was rather proud of it; but he acknowledged to

himself that it would be well that he should keep himself free from

the society of Madalinas for the future.

CHAPTER LXXXI.

BARCHESTER CLOISTERS.

On the morning of the Sunday after the dean's return Mr. Harding was

lying in his bed, and Posy was sitting on the bed beside him. It was

manifest to all now that he became feebler and feebler from day to

day, and that he would never leave his bed again. Even the archdeacon

had shaken his head, and had acknowledged to his wife that the last

day for her father was near at hand. It would very soon be necessary

that he should select another vicar for St. Ewolds.

"Grandpa won't play cat's-cradle," said Posy, as Mrs. Arabin entered

the room.

"No, darling,--not this morning," said the old man. He himself knew

well enough that he would never play cat's-cradle again. Even that

was over for him now.

"She teases you, papa," said Mrs. Arabin.

"No, indeed," said he. "Posy never teases me;" and he slowly moved

his withered hand down outside the bed, so as to hold the child by

her frock. "Let her stay with me, my dear."

"Dr. Filgrave is downstairs, papa. You will see him, if he comes up?"

Now Dr. Filgrave was the leading physician of Barchester, and nobody

of note in the city,--or for the matter of that in the eastern

division of the county,--was allowed to start upon the last great

journey without some assistance from him as the hour of going drew

nigh. I do not know that he had much reputation for prolonging life,

but he was supposed to add a grace to the hour of departure. Mr.

Harding had expressed no wish to see the doctor,--had rather declared

his conviction that Dr. Filgrave could be of no possible service to

him. But he was not a man to persevere in his objection in opposition

to the wishes of the friends around him; and as soon as the

archdeacon had spoken a word on the subject he assented.

"Of course, my dear, I will see him."

"And Posy shall come back when he has gone," said Mrs. Arabin.

"Posy will do me more good than Dr. Filgrave I am quite sure;--but

Posy shall go now." So Posy scrambled off the bed, and the doctor was

ushered into the room.

"A day or two will see the end of it, Mr. Archdeacon;--I should say a

day or two," said the doctor, as he met Dr. Grantly in the hall. "I

should say that a day or two would see the end of it. Indeed I will

not undertake that twenty-four hours may not see the close of his

earthly troubles. He has no suffering, no pain, no disturbing cause.

Nature simply retires to rest." Dr. Filgrave, as he said this, made a

slow falling motion with his hands, which alone on various occasions

had been thought to be worth all the money paid for his attendance.

"Perhaps you would wish that I should step in in the evening, Mr.

Dean? As it happens, I shall be at liberty." The dean of course said

that he would take it as an additional favour. Neither the dean nor

the archdeacon had the slightest belief in Dr. Filgrave, and yet they

would hardly have been contented that their father-in-law should have

departed without him.

"Look at that man, now," said the archdeacon, when the doctor had

gone, "who talks so glibly about nature going to rest. I've known

him all my life. He's an older man by some months than our dear

old friend upstairs. And he looks as if he were going to attend

death-beds in Barchester for ever."

"I suppose he is right in what he tells us now?" said the dean.

"No doubt he is; but my belief doesn't come from his saying it." Then

there was a pause as the two church dignitaries sat together, doing

nothing, feeling that the solemnity of the moment was such that it

would be hardly becoming that they should even attempt to read. "His

going will make an old man of me," said the archdeacon. "It will be

different with you."

"It will make an old woman of Eleanor, I fear."

"I seem to have known him all my life," said the archdeacon. "I have

known him ever since I left college; and I have known him as one

man seldom knows another. There is nothing that he has done,--as I

believe, nothing that he has thought,--with which I have not been

cognizant. I feel sure that he never had an impure fancy in his mind,

or a faulty wish in his heart. His tenderness has surpassed the

tenderness of woman; and yet, when an occasion came for showing it,

he had all the spirit of a hero. I shall never forget his resignation

of the hospital, and all that I did and said to make him keep it."

"But he was right?"

"As Septimus Harding he was, I think, right; but it would have been

wrong in any other man. And he was right, too, about the deanery."

For promotion had once come in Mr. Harding's way, and he, too, might

have been Dean of Barchester. "The fact is, he never was wrong.

He couldn't go wrong. He lacked guile, and he feared God,--and a

man who does both will never go far astray. I don't think he ever

coveted aught in his life,--except a new case for his violoncello and

somebody to listen to him when he played it." Then the archdeacon got

up, and walked about the room in his enthusiasm; and, perhaps, as

he walked some thoughts as to the sterner ambition of his own life

passed through his mind. What things had he coveted? Had he lacked

guile? He told himself that he had feared God,--but he was not sure

that he was telling himself true even in that.

During the whole of the morning Mrs. Arabin and Mrs. Grantly were

with their father, and during the greater part of the day there was

absolute silence in the room. He seemed to sleep; and they, though

they knew that in truth he was not sleeping, feared to disturb him

by a word. About two Mrs. Baxter brought him his dinner, and he did

rouse himself, and swallowed a spoonful or two of soup and half

a glass of wine. At this time Posy came to him, and stood at the

bedside, looking at him with her great wide eyes. She seemed to be

aware that life had now gone so far with her dear old friend that she

must not be allowed to sit upon his bed again. But he put his hand

out to her, and she held it, standing quite still and silent. When

Mrs. Baxter came to take away the tray, Posy's mother got up, and

whispered a word to the child. Then Posy went away, and her eyes

never beheld the old man again. That was a day which Posy will

never forget,--not though she should live to be much older than her

grandfather was when she thus left him.

"It is so sweet to have you both here," he said, when he had been

lying silent for nearly an hour after the child had gone. Then they

got up, and came and stood close to him. "There is nothing left for

me to wish, my dears;--nothing." Not long after that he expressed a

desire that the two husbands,--his two sons-in-law,--should come to

him; and Mrs. Arabin went to them, and brought them to the room. As

he took their hands he merely repeated the same words again. "There

is nothing left for me to wish, my dears;--nothing." He never spoke

again above his breath; but ever and anon his daughters, who watched

him, could see that he was praying. The two men did not stay with him

long, but returned to the gloom of the library. The gloom had almost

become the darkness of night, and they were still sitting there

without any light, when Mrs. Baxter entered the room. "The dear

gentleman is no more," said Mrs. Baxter; and it seemed to the

archdeacon that the very moment of his father's death had repeated

itself. When Dr. Filgrave called he was told that his services could

be of no further use. "Dear, dear!" said the doctor. "We are all

dust, Mrs. Baxter; are we not?" There were people in Barchester who

pretended to know how often the doctor had repeated this little

formula during the last thirty years.

There was no violence of sorrow in the house that night; but there

were aching hearts, and one heart so sore that it seemed that no cure

for its anguish could ever reach it. "He has always been with me,"

Mrs. Arabin said to her husband, as he strove to console her. "It was

not that I loved him better than Susan, but I have felt so much more

of his loving tenderness. The sweetness of his voice has been in my

ears almost daily since I was born."

They buried him in the cathedral which he had loved so well, and

in which nearly all the work of his life had been done; and all

Barchester was there to see him laid in his grave within the

cloisters. There was no procession of coaches, no hearse, nor was

there any attempt at funereal pomp. From the dean's side door, across

the vaulted passage, and into the transept,--over the little step

upon which he had so nearly fallen when last he made his way out of

the building,--the coffin was carried on men's shoulders. It was

but a short journey from his bedroom to his grave. But the bell had

been tolling sadly all the morning, and the nave and the aisles and

the transepts, close up to the door leading from the transept into

the cloister, were crowded with those who had known the name and

the figure and the voice of Mr. Harding as long as they had known

anything. Up to this day no one would have said specially that Mr.

Harding was a favourite in the town. He had never been forward enough

in anything to become the acknowledged possessor of popularity. But,

now that he was gone, men and women told each other how good he had

been. They remembered the sweetness of his smile, and talked of

loving little words which he had spoken to them,--either years ago

or the other day, for his words had always been loving. The dean and

the archdeacon came first, shoulder to shoulder, and after them came

their wives. I do not know that it was the proper order for mourning,

but it was a touching sight to be seen, and was long remembered in

Barchester. Painful as it was for them, the two women would be there,

and the two sisters would walk together;--nor would they go before

their husbands. Then there were the archdeacon's two sons,--for the

Rev. Charles Grantly had come to Plumstead on the occasion. And in

the vaulted passage which runs between the deanery and the end of

the transept all the chapter, with the choir, the prebendaries, with

the fat old chancellor, the precentor, and the minor canons down

to the little choristers,--they all were there, and followed in at

the transept door, two by two. And in the transept they were joined

by another clergyman whom no one had expected to see that day. The

bishop was there, looking old and worn,--almost as though he were

unconscious of what he was doing. Since his wife's death no one had

seen him out of the palace or of the palace grounds till that day.

But there he was,--and they made way for him into the procession

behind the two ladies,--and the archdeacon, when he saw it, resolved

that there should be peace in his heart, if peace might be possible.

They made their way into the cloisters where the grave had been

dug,--as many as might be allowed to follow. The place indeed was

open to all who chose to come; but they who had only slightly known

the man, refrained from pressing upon those who had a right to stand

around his coffin. But there was one other there whom the faithful

chronicler of Barchester should mention. Before any other one had

reached the spot, the sexton and the verger between them had led in

between them, among the graves beneath the cloisters, a blind man,

very old, with a wondrous stoop, but who must have owned a grand

stature before extreme old age had bent him, and they placed him

sitting on a stone in the corner of the archway. But as soon as the

shuffling of steps reached his ears, he raised himself with the

aid of his stick, and stood during the service leaning against the

pillar. The blind man was so old that he might almost have been

Mr. Harding's father. This was John Bunce, a bedesman from Hiram's

Hospital,--and none perhaps there had known Mr. Harding better than

he had known him. When the earth had been thrown on to the coffin,

and the service was over, and they were about to disperse, Mrs.

Arabin went up to the old man, and taking his hand between hers

whispered a word into his ear. "Oh, Miss Eleanor," he said. "Oh, Miss

Eleanor!" Within a fortnight he also was lying within the cathedral

precincts.

And so they buried Mr. Septimus Harding, formerly Warden of Hiram's

Hospital in the city of Barchester, of whom the chronicler may say

that that city never knew a sweeter gentleman or a better Christian.

CHAPTER LXXXII.

THE LAST SCENE AT HOGGLESTOCK.

[Illustration]

The fortnight following Mr. Harding's death was passed very quietly

at Hogglestock, for during that time no visitor made an appearance in

the parish except Mr. Snapper on the Sundays. Mr. Snapper, when he

had completed the service on the first of these Sundays, intimated to

Mr. Crawley his opinion that probably that gentleman might himself

wish to resume the duties on the following Sabbath. Mr. Crawley,

however, courteously declined to do anything of the kind. He said

that it was quite out of the question that he should do so without a

direct communication made to him from the bishop, or by the bishop's

order. The assizes had, of course, gone by, and all question of the

trial was over. Nevertheless,--as Mr. Snapper said,--the bishop had

not, as yet, given any order. Mr. Snapper was of opinion that the

bishop in these days was not quite himself. He had spoken to the

bishop about it and the bishop had told him peevishly--"I must say

quite peevishly," Mr. Snapper had said,--that nothing was to be done

at present. Mr. Snapper was not the less clearly of opinion that Mr.

Crawley might resume his duties. To this, however, Mr. Crawley would

not assent.

But even during the fortnight Mr. Crawley had not remained altogether

neglected. Two days after Mr. Harding's death he had received a note

from the dean in which he was advised not to resume the duties at

Hogglestock for the present. "Of course you can understand that we

have a sad house here at present," the dean had said. "But as soon as

ever we are able to move in the matter we will arrange things for you

as comfortably as we can. I will see the bishop myself." Mr. Crawley

had no ambitious idea of any comfort which might accrue to him beyond

that of an honourable return to his humble preferment at Hogglestock;

but, nevertheless, he was in this case minded to do as the dean

counselled him. He had submitted himself to the bishop, and he would

wait till the bishop absolved him from his submission.

On the day after the funeral, the bishop had sent his compliments to

the dean with the expression of a wish that the dean would call upon

him on any early day that might be convenient with reference to the

position of Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock. The note was in the bishop's

own handwriting and was as mild and civil as a bishop's note could

be. Of course the dean named an early day for the interview; but it

was necessary before he went to the bishop that he should discuss

the matter with the archdeacon. If St. Ewolds might be given to Mr.

Crawley, the Hogglestock difficulties would all be brought to an

end. The archdeacon, after the funeral, had returned to Plumstead,

and thither the dean went to him before he saw the bishop. He did

succeed,--he and Mrs. Grantly between them,--but with very great

difficulty, in obtaining a conditional promise. They had both thought

that when the archdeacon became fully aware that Grace was to be his

daughter-in-law, he would at once have been delighted to have an

opportunity of extricating from his poverty a clergyman with whom it

was his fate to be so closely connected. But he fought the matter

on twenty different points. He declared at first that as it was his

primary duty to give to the people of St. Ewolds the best clergyman

he could select for them he could not give the preferment to Mr.

Crawley, because Mr. Crawley, in spite of all his zeal and piety, was

a man so quaint in his manners and so eccentric in his mode of speech

as not to be the best clergyman whom he could select. "What is my

old friend Thorne to do with a man in his parish who won't drink

a glass of wine with him?" For Ullathorne, the seat of that Mr.

Wilfred Thorne who had been so guilty in the matter of the foxes,

was situated in the parish of St. Ewolds. When Mrs. Grantly proposed

that Mr. Thorne's consent should be asked, the archdeacon became very

angry. He had never heard so unecclesiastical a proposition in his

life. It was his special duty to do the best he could for Mr. Thorne,

but it was specially his duty to do so without consulting Mr. Thorne

about it. As the archdeacon's objection had been argued simply on the

point of the glass of wine, both the dean and Mrs. Grantly thought

that he was unreasonable. But they had their point to gain, and

therefore they only flattered him. They were sure that Mr. Thorne

would like to have a clergyman in the parish who would himself be

closely connected with the archdeacon. Then Dr. Grantly alleged that

he might find himself in a trap. What if he conferred the living of

St. Ewolds on Mr. Crawley and after all there should be no marriage

between his son and Grace? "Of course they'll be married," said Mrs.

Grantly. "It's all very well for you to say that, my dear; but the

whole family are so queer that there is no knowing what the girl may

do. She may take up some other fad now, and refuse him point blank."

"She has never taken up any fad," said Mrs. Grantly, who now mounted

almost to wrath in defence of her future daughter-in-law, "and you

are wrong to say that she has. She has behaved beautifully;--as

nobody knows better than you do." Then the archdeacon gave way so far

as to promise that St. Ewolds should be offered to Mr. Crawley as

soon as Grace Crawley was in truth engaged to Harry Grantly.

After that, the dean went to the palace. There had never been any

quarrelling between the bishop and the dean, either direct or

indirect;--nor, indeed, had the dean ever quarrelled even with Mrs.

Proudie. But he had belonged to the anti-Proudie faction. He had

been brought into the diocese by the Grantly interest; and therefore,

during Mrs. Proudie's life-time, he had always been accounted among

the enemies. There had never been any real intimacy between the

houses. Each house had been always asked to dine with the other

house once a year; but it had been understood that such dinings were

ecclesiastico-official, and not friendly. There had been the same

outside diocesan civility between even the palace and Plumstead. But

now, when the great chieftain of the palace was no more, and the

strength of the palace faction was gone, peace, or perhaps something

more than peace,--amity, perhaps, might be more easily arranged

with the dean than with the archdeacon. In preparation for such

arrangements the bishop had gone to Mr. Harding's funeral.

And now the dean went to the palace at the bishop's behest. He

found his lordship alone, and was received with almost reverential

courtesy. He thought that the bishop was looking wonderfully aged

since he last saw him, but did not perhaps take into account the

absence of clerical sleekness which was incidental to the bishop's

private life in his private room, and perhaps in a certain measure

to his recent great affliction. The dean had been in the habit of

regarding Dr. Proudie as a man almost young for his age,--having

been in the habit of seeing him at his best, clothed in authority,

redolent of the throne, conspicuous as regarded his apron and outward

signs of episcopality. Much of all this was now absent. The bishop,

as he rose to greet the dean, shuffled with his old slippers, and his

hair was not brushed so becomingly as used to be the case when Mrs.

Proudie was always near him.

It was necessary that a word should be said by each as to the loss

which the other had suffered. "Mr. Dean," said his lordship, "allow

me to offer you my condolements in regard to the death of that very

excellent clergyman and most worthy gentleman, your father-in-law."

"Thank you, my lord. He was excellent and worthy. I do not suppose

that I shall live to see any man who was more so. You also have a

great,--a terrible loss."

"O, Mr. Dean, yes; yes, indeed, Mr. Dean. That was a loss."

"And hardly past the prime of life!"

"Ah, yes;--just fifty-six,--and so strong! Was she not? At least

everybody thought so. And yet she was gone in a minute;--gone in a

minute. I haven't held up my head since, Mr. Dean."

"It was a great loss, my lord; but you must struggle to bear it."

"I do struggle. I am struggling. But it makes one feel so lonely in

this great house. Ah, me! I often wish, Mr. Dean, that it had pleased

Providence to have left me in some humble parsonage, where duty would

have been easier than it is here. But I will not trouble you with all

that. What are we to do, Mr. Dean, about this poor Mr. Crawley?"

"Mr. Crawley is a very old friend of mine, and a very dear friend."

"Is he? Ah! A very worthy man, I am sure, and one who has been much

tried by undeserved adversities."

"Most severely tried, my lord."

"Sitting among the potsherds, like Job; has he not, Mr. Dean? Well;

let us hope that all that is over. When this accusation about the

robbery was brought against him, I found myself bound to interfere."

"He has no complaint to make on that score."

"I hope not. I have not wished to be harsh, but what could I do, Mr.

Dean? They told me that the civil authorities found the evidence so

strong against him that it could not be withstood."

"It was very strong."

"And we thought that he should at least be relieved, and we sent for

Dr. Tempest, who is his rural dean." Then the bishop, remembering all

the circumstances of that interview with Dr. Tempest,--as to which he

had ever felt assured that one of the results of it was the death of

his wife, whereby there was no longer any "we" left in the palace of

Barchester,--sighed piteously, looking up at the dean with hopeless

face.

"Nobody doubts, my lord, that you acted for the best."

"I hope we did. I think we did. And now what shall we do? He has

resigned his living, both to you and to me, as I hear,--you being

the patron. It will simply be necessary, I think, that he should ask

to have the letters cancelled. Then, as I take it, there need be no

reinstitution. You cannot think, Mr. Dean, how much I have thought

about it all."

Then the dean unfolded his budget, and explained to the bishop

how he hoped that the living of St. Ewolds, which was, after some

ecclesiastical fashion, attached to the rectory of Plumstead, and

which was now vacant by the demise of Mr. Harding, might be conferred

by the archdeacon upon Mr. Crawley. It was necessary to explain also

that this could not be done quite immediately, and in doing this the

dean encountered some little difficulty. The archdeacon, he said,

wished to be allowed another week to think about it; and therefore

perhaps provision for the duties at Hogglestock might yet be made for

a few Sundays. The bishop, the dean said, might easily understand

that, after what had occurred, Mr. Crawley would hardly wish to go

again into that pulpit, unless he did so as resuming duties which

would necessarily be permanent with him. To all this the bishop

assented, but he was apparently struck with much wonder at the choice

made by the archdeacon. "I should have thought, Mr. Dean," he said,

"that Mr. Crawley was the last man to have suited the archdeacon's

choice."

"The archdeacon and I married sisters, my lord."

"Oh, ah! yes. And he puts the nomination of St. Ewolds at your

disposition. I am sure I shall be delighted to institute so worthy

a gentleman as Mr. Crawley." Then the dean took his leave of the

bishop,--as will we also. Poor dear bishop! I am inclined to think

that he was right in his regrets as to the little parsonage. Not that

his failure at Barchester, and his present consciousness of lonely

incompetence, were mainly due to any positive inefficiency on his

own part. He might have been a sufficiently good bishop, had it not

been that Mrs. Proudie was so much more than a sufficiently good

bishop's wife. We will now say farewell to him, with a hope that the

lopped tree may yet become green again, and to some extent fruitful,

although all its beautiful head and richness of waving foliage have

been taken from it.

About a week after this Henry Grantly rode over from Cosby Lodge to

Hogglestock. It has been just said that though the assizes had passed

by and though all question of Mr. Crawley's guilt was now set aside,

no visitor had of late made his way over to Hogglestock. I fancy

that Grace Crawley forgot, in the fulness of her memory as to other

things, that Mr. Harding, of whose death she heard, had been her

lover's grandfather,--and that therefore there might possibly be some

delay. Had there been much said between the mother and the daughter

about the lover, no doubt all this would have been explained;

but Grace was very reticent, and there were other matters in the

Hogglestock household which in those days occupied Mrs. Crawley's

mind. How were they again to begin life? for, in very truth, life

as it had existed with them before, had been brought to an end. But

Grace remembered well the sort of compact which existed between

her and her lover;--the compact which had been made in very words

between herself and her lover's father. Complete in her estimation

as had been the heaven opened to her by Henry Grantly's offer, she

had refused it all,--lest she should bring disgrace upon him. But the

disgrace was not certain; and if her father should be made free from

it, then,--then,--then Henry Grantly ought to come to her and be

at her feet with all the expedition possible to him. That was her

reading of the compact. She had once declared, when speaking of the

possible disgrace which might attach itself to her family and to her

name, that her poverty did not "signify a bit." She was not ashamed

of her father,--only of the accusation against her father. Therefore

she had hurried home when that accusation was withdrawn, desirous

that her lover should tell her of his love,--if he chose to repeat

such telling,--amidst all the poor things of Hogglestock, and not

among the chairs and tables and good dinners of luxurious Framley.

Mrs. Robarts had given a true interpretation to Lady Lufton of the

haste which Grace had displayed. But she need not have been in so

great a hurry. She had been at home already above a fortnight, and

as yet he had made no sign. At last she said a word to her mother.

"Might I not ask to go back to Miss Prettyman's now, mamma?" "I

think, dear, you had better wait till things are a little settled.

Papa is to hear again from the dean very soon. You see they are all

in a great sorrow at Barchester about poor Mr. Harding's death."

"Grace!" said Jane, rushing into the house almost speechless, at that

moment, "here he is!--on horseback." I do not know why Jane should

have talked about Major Grantly as simply "he." There had been no

conversation among the sisters to justify her in such a mode of

speech. Grace had not a moment to put two and two together, so that

she might realize the meaning of what her mother had said; but

nevertheless, she felt at the moment that the man, coming as he had

done now, had come with all commendable speed. How foolish had she

been with her wretched impatience!

There he was certainly, tying his horse up to the railing. "Mamma,

what am I to say to him?"

"Nay, dear; he is your own friend,--of your own making. You must say

what you think fit."

"You are not going?"

"I think we had better, dear." Then she went, and Jane with her, and

Jane opened the door for Major Grantly. Mr. Crawley himself was away,

at Hoggle End, and did not return till after Major Grantly had left

the parsonage. Jane, as she greeted the grand gentleman, whom she

had seen and no more than seen, hardly knew what to say to him.

When, after a minute's hesitation, she told him that Grace was in

there,--pointing to the sitting-room door, she felt that she had been

very awkward. Henry Grantly, however, did not, I think, feel her

awkwardness, being conscious of some small difficulties of his own.

When, however, he found that Grace was alone, the task before him at

once lost half its difficulties. "Grace," he said, "am I right to

come to you now?"

"I do not know," she said. "I cannot tell."

"Dearest Grace, there is no reason on earth now why you should not be

my wife."

"Is there not?"

"I know of none,--if you can love me. You saw my father?"

"Yes, I saw him."

"And you heard what he said?"

"I hardly remember what he said;--but he kissed me, and I thought he

was very kind."

What little attempt Henry Grantly then made, thinking that he could

not do better than follow closely the example of so excellent a

father, need not be explained with minuteness. But I think that his

first effort was not successful. Grace was embarrassed and retreated,

and it was not till she had been compelled to give a direct answer

to a direct question that she submitted to allow his arm round her

waist. But when she had answered that question she was almost more

humble than becomes a maiden who has just been wooed and won. A

maiden who has been wooed and won, generally thinks that it is she

who has conquered, and chooses to be triumphant accordingly. But

Grace was even mean enough to thank her lover. "I do not know why you

should be so good to me," she said.

"Because I love you," said he, "better than all the world."

"But why should you be so good to me as that? Why should you love me?

I am such a poor thing for a man like you to love."

"I have had the wit to see that you are not a poor thing, Grace;

and it is thus that I have earned my treasure. Some girls are poor

things, and some are rich treasures."

"If love can make me a treasure, I will be your treasure. And if love

can make me rich, I will be rich for you." After that I think he had

no difficulty in following in his father's footsteps.

After a while Mrs. Crawley came in, and there was much pleasant

talking among them, while Henry Grantly sat happily with his love,

as though waiting for Mr. Crawley's return. But though he was there

nearly all the morning Mr. Crawley did not return. "I think he

likes the brickmakers better than anybody in all the world, except

ourselves," said Grace. "I don't know how he will manage to get on

without his friends." Before Grace had said this, Major Grantly

had told all his story, and had produced a letter from his father,

addressed to Mr. Crawley, of which the reader shall have a copy,

although at this time the letter had not been opened. The letter was

as follows:--

Plumstead Rectory, -- May, 186--.

MY DEAR SIR,

You will no doubt have heard that Mr. Harding, the vicar

of St. Ewolds, who was the father of my wife and of Mrs.

Arabin, has been taken from us. The loss to us of so

excellent and so dear a man has been very great. I have

conferred with my friend the Dean of Barchester as to a

new nomination, and I venture to request your acceptance

of the preferment, if it should suit you to move from

Hogglestock to St. Ewolds. It may be as well that I should

state plainly my reasons for making this offer to a

gentleman with whom I am not personally acquainted. Mr.

Harding, on his deathbed, himself suggested it, moved

thereto by what he had heard of the cruel and undeserved

persecution to which you have lately been subjected;

as also,--on which point he was very urgent in what he

said,--by the character which you bear in the diocese for

zeal and piety. I may also add, that the close connection

which, as I understand, is likely to take place between

your family and mine has been an additional reason for

my taking this step, and the long friendship which has

existed between you and my wife's brother-in-law, the Dean

of Barchester, is a third.

St. Ewolds is worth £350 per annum, besides the house,

which is sufficiently commodious for a moderate family.

The population is about twelve hundred, of which more than

a half consists of persons dwelling in an outskirt of the

city,--for the parish runs almost into Barchester.

I shall be glad to have your reply with as little delay

as may suit your convenience, and in the event of your

accepting the offer,--which I sincerely trust you may be

enabled to do,--I shall hope to have an early opportunity

of seeing you, with reference to your institution to the

parish.

Allow me also to say to you and to Mrs. Crawley that, if

we have been correctly informed as to that other event

to which I have alluded, we both hope that we may have

an early opportunity of making ourselves personally

acquainted with the parents of a young lady who is to

be so dear to us. As I have met your daughter, I may

perhaps be allowed to send her my kindest love. If, as my

daughter-in-law, she comes up to the impression which she

gave me at our first meeting, I, at any rate, shall be

satisfied.

I have the honour to be, my dear sir,

Your most faithful servant,

THEOPHILUS GRANTLY.

This letter the archdeacon had shown to his wife, by whom it had not

been very warmly approved. Nothing, Mrs. Grantly had said, could be

prettier than what the archdeacon had said about Grace. Mrs. Crawley,

no doubt, would be satisfied with that. But Mr. Crawley was such a

strange man! "He will be stranger than I take him to be if he does

not accept St. Ewolds," said the archdeacon. "But in offering it,"

said Mrs. Grantly, "you have not said a word of your own high opinion

of his merits." "I have not a very high opinion of them," said the

archdeacon. "Your father had, and I have said so. And as I have the

most profound respect for your father's opinion in such a matter, I

have permitted that to overcome my own hesitation." This was pretty

from the husband to the wife as it regarded her father, who had now

gone from them; and, therefore, Mrs. Grantly accepted it without

further argument. The reader may probably feel assured that the

archdeacon had never, during their joint lives, acted in any church

matter upon the advice given to him by Mr. Harding; and it was

probably the case also that the living would have been offered to

Mr. Crawley, if nothing had been said by Mr. Harding on the subject;

but it did not become Mrs. Grantly even to think of all this. The

archdeacon, having made his gracious speech about her father, was not

again asked to alter his letter. "I suppose he will accept it," said

Mrs. Grantly. "I should think that he probably may," said the

archdeacon.

So Grace, knowing what was the purport of the letter, sat with it

between her fingers, while her lover sat beside her, full of various

plans for the future. This was his first lover's present to her;--and

what a present it was! Comfort, and happiness, and a pleasant home

for all her family. "St. Ewolds isn't the best house in the world,"

said the major, "because it is old, and what I call piecemeal; but

it is very pretty, and certainly nice." "That is just the sort of

parsonage that I dream about," said Jane. "And the garden is pleasant

with old trees," said the major. "I always dream about old trees,"

said Jane, "only I'm afraid I'm too old myself to be let to climb up

them now." Mrs. Crawley said very little, but sat by with her eyes

full of tears. Was it possible that, at last, before the world had

closed upon her, she was to enjoy something again of the comforts

which she had known in her early years, and to be again surrounded by

those decencies of life which of late had been almost banished from

her home by poverty!

Their various plans for the future,--for the immediate future,--were

very startling. Grace was to go over at once to Plumstead, whither

Edith had been already transferred from Cosby Lodge. That was all

very well; there was nothing very startling or impracticable in

that. The Framley ladies, having none of those doubts as to what

was coming which had for a while perplexed Grace herself, had taken

little liberties with her wardrobe, which enabled such a visit to be

made without overwhelming difficulties. But the major was equally

eager,--or at any rate equally imperious,--in his requisition for

a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Crawley themselves to Plumstead rectory.

Mrs. Crawley did not dare to put forward the plain unadorned reasons

against it, as Mr. Crawley had done when discussing the subject of

a visit to the deanery. Nor could she quite venture to explain that

she feared that the archdeacon and her husband would hardly mix well

together in society. With whom, indeed, was it possible that her

husband should mix well, after his long and hardly-tried seclusion?

She could only plead that both her husband and herself were so little

used to going out that she feared,--she feared,--she feared she

knew not what. "We'll get over all that," said the major, almost

contemptuously. "It is only the first plunge that is disagreeable."

Perhaps the major did not know how very disagreeable a first plunge

may be!

At two o'clock Henry Grantly got up to go. "I should very much like

to have seen him, but I fear I cannot wait longer. As it is, the

patience of my horse has been surprising." Then Grace walked out with

him to the gate, and put her hand upon his bridle as he mounted, and

thought how wonderful was the power of Fortune, that the goddess

should have sent so gallant a gentleman to be her lord and her lover.

"I declare I don't quite believe it even yet," she said, in the

letter which she wrote to Lily Dale that night.

It was four before Mr. Crawley returned to his house, and then he was

very weary. There were many sick in these days at Hoggle End, and he

had gone from cottage to cottage through the day. Giles Hoggett was

almost unable to work from rheumatism, but still was of opinion that

doggedness might carry him on. "It's been a deal o' service to you,

Muster Crawley," he said. "We hears about it all. If you hadn't a

been dogged, where'd you a been now?" With Giles Hoggett and others

he had remained all the day, and now he came home weary and beaten.

"You'll tell him first," Grace had said, "and then I'll give him the

letter." The wife was the first to tell him of the good fortune that

was coming.

He flung himself into the old chair as soon as he entered, and asked

for some bread and tea. "Jane has already gone for it, dear," said

his wife. "We have had a visitor here, Josiah."

"A visitor,--what visitor?"

"Grace's own friend,--Henry Grantly."

"Grace, come here, that I may kiss you and bless you," he said, very

solemnly. "It would seem that the world is going to be very good to

you."

"Papa, you must read this letter first."

"Before I kiss my own darling?" Then she knelt at his feet. "I

see," he said, taking the letter; "it is from your lover's father.

Peradventure he signifies his consent, which would be surely needful

before such a marriage would be seemly."

[Illustration: "Peradventure he signifies his Consent."]

"It isn't about me, papa, at all."

"Not about you? If so, that would be most unpromising. But, in any

case, you are my best darling." Then he kissed her and blessed her,

and slowly opened the letter. His wife had now come close to him, and

was standing over him, touching him, so that she also could read the

archdeacon's letter. Grace, who was still in front of him, could see

the working of his face as he read it; but even she could not tell

whether he was gratified, or offended, or dismayed. When he had got

as far as the first offer of the presentation, he ceased reading for

a while, and looked round about the room as though lost in thought.

"Let me see what further he writes to me," he then said; and after

that he continued the letter slowly to the end. "Nay, my child, you

were in error in saying that he wrote not about you. 'Tis in writing

of you he has put some real heart into his words. He writes as though

his home would be welcome to you."

"And does he not make St. Ewolds welcome to you, papa?"

"He makes me welcome to accept it,--if I may use the word after the

ordinary and somewhat faulty parlance of mankind."

"And you will accept it,--of course?"

"I know not that, my dear. The acceptance of a cure of souls is

a thing not to be decided on in a moment,--as is the colour of a

garment or the shape of a toy. Nor would I condescend to take this

thing from the archdeacon's hands, if I thought that he bestowed it

simply that the father of his daughter-in-law might no longer be

accounted poor."

"Does he say that, papa?"

"He gives it as a collateral reason, basing his offer first on the

kindly expressed judgment of one who is now no more. Then he refers

to the friendship of the dean. If he believed that the judgment of

his late father-in-law in so weighty a matter were the best to be

relied upon of all that were at his command, then he would have

done well to trust to it. But in such case he should have bolstered

up a good ground for action with no collateral supports which

are weak,--and worse than weak. However, it shall have my best

consideration, whereunto I hope that wisdom will be given me where

only such wisdom can be had."

"Josiah," said his wife to him, when they were alone, "you will not

refuse it?"

"Not willingly,--not if it may be accepted. Alas! you need not urge

me, when the temptation is so strong!"

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

MR. CRAWLEY IS CONQUERED.

It was more than a week before the archdeacon received a reply from

Mr. Crawley, during which time the dean had been over at Hogglestock

more than once, as had also Mrs. Arabin and Lady Lufton the

younger,--and there had been letters written without end, and the

archdeacon had been nearly beside himself. "A man who pretends to

conscientious scruples of that kind is not fit to have a parish," he

had said to his wife. His wife understood what he meant, and I trust

that the reader may also understand it. In the ordinary cutting

of blocks a very fine razor is not an appropriate instrument. The

archdeacon, moreover, loved the temporalities of the Church as

temporalities. The Church was beautiful to him because one man by

interest might have a thousand a year, while another man equally

good, but without interest, could only have a hundred. And he liked

the men who had the interest a great deal better than the men who

had it not. He had been willing to admit this poor perpetual curate,

who had so long been kept out in the cold, within the pleasant

circle which was warm with ecclesiastical good things, and the man

hesitated,--because of scruples, as the dean told him! "I always

button up my pocket when I hear of scruples," the archdeacon said.

But at last Mr. Crawley condescended to accept St. Ewolds. "Reverend

and dear Sir," he said in his letter.

For the personal benevolence of the offer made to me in

your letter of the ---- instant, I beg to tender you my

most grateful thanks; as also for your generous kindness

to me, in telling me of the high praise bestowed upon me

by a gentleman who is now no more,--whose character I

have esteemed and whose good opinion I value. There is,

methinks, something inexpressibly dear to me in the

recorded praise of the dead. For the further instance

of the friendship of the Dean of Barchester, I am also

thankful.

Since the receipt of your letter I have doubted much as to

my fitness for the work you have proposed to entrust to

me,--not from any feeling that the parish of St. Ewolds

may be beyond my intellectual power, but because the

latter circumstances of my life have been of a nature so

strange and perplexing, that they have left me somewhat

in doubt as to my own aptitude for going about among men

without giving offence and becoming a stumbling-block.

Nevertheless, reverend and dear sir, if after this

confession on my part of a certain faulty demeanour with

which I know well that I am afflicted, you are still

willing to put the parish into my hands, I will accept the

charge,--instigated to do so by the advice of all whom I

have consulted on the subject; and in thus accepting it,

I hereby pledge myself to vacate it at a month's warning,

should I be called upon by you to do so at any period

within the next two years. Should I be so far successful

during those twenty-four months as to have satisfied both

yourself and myself, I may then perhaps venture to regard

the preferment as my own in perpetuity for life.

I have the honour to be, reverend and dear sir,

Your most humble and faithful servant,

JOSIAH CRAWLEY.

"Psha!" said the archdeacon, who professed that he did not at all

like the letter. "I wonder what he would say if I sent him a month's

notice at next Michaelmas?"

"I'm sure he would go," said Mrs. Grantly.

"The more fool he," said the archdeacon.

At this time Grace was at the parsonage in a seventh heaven of

happiness. The archdeacon was never rough to her, nor did he make any

of his harsh remarks about her father in her presence. Before her St.

Ewolds was spoken of as the home that was to belong to the Crawleys

for the next twenty years. Mrs. Grantly was very loving with her,

lavishing upon her pretty presents, and words that were prettier than

the presents. Grace's life had hitherto been so destitute of those

prettinesses and softnesses, which can hardly be had without money

though money alone will not purchase them, that it seemed to her now

that the heavens rained graciousness upon her. It was not that the

archdeacon's watch, or her lover's chain, or Mrs. Grantly's locket,

or the little toy from Italy which Mrs. Arabin brought to her from

the treasures of the deanery, filled her heart with undue exultation.

It was not that she revelled in her new delights of silver and gold

and shining gems: but that the silver and gold and shining gems were

constant indications to her that things had changed, not only for

her, but for her father and mother, and brother and sister. She felt

now more sure than ever that she could not have enjoyed her love had

she accepted her lover while the disgrace of the accusation against

her father remained. But now,--having waited till that had passed

away, everything was a new happiness to her.

At last it was settled that Mr. and Mrs. Crawley were to come to

Plumstead,--and they came. It would be too long to tell now how

gradually had come about that changed state of things which made such

a visit possible. Mr. Crawley had at first declared that such a thing

was quite out of the question. If St. Ewolds was to depend upon it

St. Ewolds must be given up. And I think that it would have been

impossible for him to go direct from Hogglestock to Plumstead. But it

fell out after this wise.

Mr. Harding's curate at St. Ewolds was nominated to Hogglestock, and

the dean urged upon his friend Crawley the expediency of giving up

the house as quickly as he could do so. Gradually at this time Mr.

Crawley had been forced into a certain amount of intimacy with the

haunts of men. He had been twice or thrice at Barchester, and had

lunched with the dean. He had been at Framley for an hour or two,

and had been forced into some communication with old Mr. Thorne,

the squire of his new parish. The end of this had been that he had

at last consented to transfer himself and wife and daughter to the

deanery for a fortnight. He had preached one farewell sermon at

Hogglestock,--not, as he told his audience, as their pastor, which

he had ceased to be now for some two or three months,--but as their

old and loving friend, to whom the use of his former pulpit had been

lent, that he might express himself thus among them for the last

time. His sermon was very short, and was preached without book or

notes,--but he never once paused for a word or halted in the string

or rhythm of his discourse. The dean was there and declared to him

afterwards that he had not given him credit for such powers of

utterance. "Any man can utter out of a full heart," Crawley had

answered. "In this trumpery affair about myself, my heart is full! If

we could only have our hearts full in other matters, our utterances

thereanent would receive more attention." To all of which the dean

made no reply.

On the day after this the Crawleys took their final departure from

Hogglestock, all the brickmakers from Hoggle End having assembled

on the occasion, with a purse containing seventeen pounds seven

shillings and sixpence, which they insisted on presenting to Mr.

Crawley, and as to which there was a little difficulty. And at the

deanery they remained for a fortnight. How Mrs. Crawley, under the

guidance of Mrs. Arabin, had there so far trenched upon the revenues

of St. Ewolds as to provide for her husband and herself raiment

fitting for the worldly splendour of Plumstead, need not here be

told in detail. Suffice to say, the raiment was forthcoming, and Mr.

Crawley found himself to be the perplexed possessor of a black dress

coat, in addition to the long frock, coming nearly to his feet, which

was provided for his daily wear. Touching this garment, there had

been some discussion between the dean and the new vicar. The dean

had desired that it should be curtailed in length. The vicar had

remonstrated,--but still with something of the weakness of compliance

in his eye. Then the dean had persisted. "Surely the price of

the cloth wanted to perfect the comeliness of the garment cannot

be much," said the vicar, almost woefully. After that, the dean

relented, and the comeliness of the coat was made perfect. The new

black long frock, I think Mr. Crawley liked; but the dress coat, with

the suit complete, perplexed him sorely.

With his new coats, and something, also, of new manners, he and his

wife went over to Plumstead, leaving Jane at the deanery with Mrs.

Arabin. The dean also went to Plumstead. They arrived there not much

before dinner, and as Grace was there before them the first moments

were not so bad. Before Mr. Crawley had had time to feel himself lost

in the drawing-room, he was summoned away to prepare himself for

dinner,--for dinner, and for the coat, which at the deanery he had

been allowed to leave unworn. "I would with all my heart that I might

retire to rest," he said to his wife, when the ceremony had been

perfected.

"Do not say so. Go down and take your place with them, and speak your

mind with them,--as you so well know how. Who among them can do it so

well?"

"I have been told," said Mr. Crawley, "that you shall take a cock

which is lord of the farmyard,--the cock of all that walk,--and when

you have daubed his feathers with mud, he shall be thrashed by every

dunghill coward. I say not that I was ever the cock of the walk, but

I know that they have daubed my feathers." Then he went down among

the other poultry into the farmyard.

At dinner he was very silent, answering, however, with a sort of

graceful stateliness any word that Mrs. Grantly addressed to him. Mr.

Thorne, from Ullathorne, was there also to meet his new vicar, as was

also Mr. Thorne's very old sister, Miss Monica Thorne. And Lady Anne

Grantly was there,--she having come with the expressed intention that

the wives of the two brothers should know each other,--but with a

warmer desire, I think, of seeing Mr. Crawley, of whom the clerical

world had been talking much since some notice of the accusation

against him had become general. There were, therefore, ten or twelve

at the dinner-table, and Mr. Crawley had not made one at such a board

certainly since his marriage. All went fairly smooth with him till

the ladies left the room; for though Lady Anne, who sat at his left

hand, had perplexed him somewhat with clerical questions, he had

found that he was not called upon for much more than monosyllabic

responses. But in his heart he feared the archdeacon, and he felt

that when the ladies were gone the archdeacon would not leave him

alone in his silence.

As soon as the door was closed, the first subject mooted was that of

the Plumstead fox, which had been so basely murdered on Mr. Thorne's

ground. Mr. Thorne had confessed the iniquity, had dismissed the

murderous keeper, and all was serene. But the greater on that account

was the feasibility of discussing the question, and the archdeacon

had a good deal to say about it. Then Mr. Thorne turned to the new

vicar, and asked him whether foxes abounded in Hogglestock. Had he

been asked as to the rats or the moles, he would have known more

about it.

"Indeed, sir, I know not whether or no there be any foxes in the

parish of Hogglestock. I do not remember me that I ever saw one. It

is an animal whose habits I have not watched."

"There is an earth at Hoggle Bushes," said the major; "and I never

knew it without a litter."

"I think I know the domestic whereabouts of every fox in Plumstead,"

said the archdeacon, with an ill-natured intention of astonishing Mr.

Crawley.

"Of foxes with two legs our friend is speaking, without doubt," said

the vicar of St. Ewolds, with an attempt at grim pleasantry.

"Of them we have none at Plumstead. No,--I was speaking of the dear

old fellow with the brush. Pass the bottle, Mr. Crawley. Won't you

fill your glass?" Mr. Crawley passed the bottle, but would not fill

his glass. Then the dean, looking up slily, saw the vexation written

in the archdeacon's face. The parson whom the archdeacon feared most

of all parsons was the parson who wouldn't fill his glass.

Then the subject was changed. "I'm told that the bishop has at last

made his reappearance on his throne," said the archdeacon.

"He was in the cathedral last Sunday," said the dean.

"Does he ever mean to preach again?"

"He never did preach very often," said the dean.

"A great deal too often, from all that people say," said the

archdeacon. "I never heard him myself, and never shall, I dare say.

You have heard him, Mr. Crawley?"

"I have never had that good fortune, Mr. Archdeacon. But living as I

shall now do, so near to the city, I may perhaps be enabled to attend

the cathedral service on some holyday of the Church, which may not

require prayers in my own rural parish. I think that the clergy of

the diocese should be acquainted with the opinions, and with the

voice, and with the very manner and words of their bishop. As things

are now done, this is not possible. I could wish that there were

occasions on which a bishop might assemble his clergy, and preach to

them sermons adapted to their use."

"What do you call a bishop's charge, then?"

"It is usually in the printed form that I have received it," said Mr.

Crawley.

"I think we have quite enough of that kind of thing," said the

archdeacon.

"He is a man whose conversation is not pleasing to me," Mr. Crawley

said to his wife that night.

"Do not judge of him too quickly, Josiah," his wife said. "There

is so much of good in him! He is kind, and generous, and I think

affectionate."

"But he is of the earth, earthy. When you and the other ladies had

retired, the conversation at first fell on the habits and value

of--foxes. I have been informed that in these parts the fox is

greatly prized, as without a fox to run before the dogs, that

scampering over the country which is called hunting, and which

delights by the quickness and perhaps by the peril of the exercise,

is not relished by the riders. Of the wisdom or taste herein

displayed by the hunters of the day I say nothing. But it seemed to

me that in talking of foxes Dr. Grantly was master of his subject.

Thence the topic glided to the duties of a bishop and to questions

of preaching, as to which Dr. Grantly was not slow in offering his

opinion. But I thought that I would rather have heard him talk about

the foxes for a week together." She said nothing more to him, knowing

well how useless it was to attempt to turn him by any argument.

To her thinking the kindness of the archdeacon to them personally

demanded some indulgence in the expression, and even in the

formation, of an opinion, respecting his clerical peculiarities.

On the next day, however, Mr. Crawley, having been summoned by the

archdeacon into the library for a little private conversation, found

that he got on better with him. How the archdeacon conquered him may

perhaps be best described by a further narration of what Mr. Crawley

said to his wife. "I told him that in regard to money matters, as he

called them, I had nothing to say. I only trusted that his son was

aware that my daughter had no money, and never would have any. 'My

dear Crawley,' the archdeacon said,--for of late there seems to have

grown up in the world a habit of greater familiarity than that which

I think did prevail when last I moved much among men;--'my dear

Crawley, I have enough for both.' 'I would we stood on more equal

grounds,' I said. Then as he answered me, he rose from his chair. 'We

stand,' said he, 'on the only perfect level on which such men can

meet each other. We are both gentlemen.' 'Sir,' I said, rising also,

'from the bottom of my heart I agree with you. I could not have

spoken such words; but coming from you who are rich to me who am

poor, they are honourable to the one and comfortable to the other.'"

"And after that?"

"He took down from the shelves a volume of sermons which his father

published many years ago, and presented it to me. I have it now under

my arm. It hath the old bishop's manuscript notes, which I will study

carefully." And thus the archdeacon had hit his bird on both wings.

CHAPTER LXXXIV.

CONCLUSION.

It now only remains for me to gather together a few loose strings,

and tie them together in a knot, so that my work may not become

untwisted. Early in July, Henry Grantly and Grace Crawley were

married in the parish church of Plumstead,--a great impropriety, as

to which neither Archdeacon Grantly nor Mr. Crawley could be got to

assent for a long time, but which was at last carried, not simply by

a union of Mrs. Grantly and Mrs. Crawley, nor even by the assistance

of Mrs. Arabin, but by the strong intervention of old Lady Lufton

herself. "Of course Miss Crawley ought to be married from St. Ewolds

vicarage; but when the furniture has only half been got in, how is

it possible?" When Lady Lufton thus spoke, the archdeacon gave way,

and Mr. Crawley hadn't a leg to stand upon. Henry Grantly had not an

opinion upon the matter. He told his father that he expected that

they would marry him among them, and that that would be enough for

him. As for Grace, nobody even thought of asking her; and I doubt

whether she would have heard anything about the contest, had not

some tidings of it reached her from her lover. Married they were at

Plumstead,--and the breakfast was given with all that luxuriance of

plenty which was so dear to the archdeacon's mind. Mr. Crawley was

the officiating priest. With his hands dropping before him, folded

humbly, he told the archdeacon,--when that Plumstead question had

been finally settled in opposition to his wishes,--that he would fain

himself perform the ceremony by which his dearest daughter would

be bound to her marriage duties. "And who else should?" said the

archdeacon. Mr. Crawley muttered that he had not known how far his

reverend brother might have been willing to waive his rights. But

the archdeacon, who was in high good humour,--having just bestowed

a little pony carriage on his new daughter-in-law,--only laughed

at him; and, if the rumour which was handed about the families be

true, the archdeacon, before the interview was over, had poked Mr.

Crawley in the ribs. Mr. Crawley married them; but the archdeacon

assisted,--and the dean gave away the bride. The Rev. Charles Grantly

was there also; and as there was, as a matter of course, a cloud of

curates floating in the distance, Henry Grantly was perhaps to be

excused for declaring to his wife, when the pair had escaped, that

surely no couple had ever been so tightly buckled since marriage had

first become a Church ceremony.

Soon after that, Mr. and Mrs. Crawley became quiet at St. Ewolds,

and, as I think, contented. Her happiness began very quickly. Though

she had been greatly broken by her troubles, the first sight she had

of her husband in his new long frock-coat went far to restore her,

and while he was declaring himself to be a cock so daubed with mud as

to be incapable of crowing, she was congratulating herself on seeing

her husband once more clothed as became his position. And they were

lucky, too, as regarded the squire's house; for Mr. Thorne was old,

and quiet, and old-fashioned; and Miss Thorne was older, and though

she was not exactly quiet, she was very old-fashioned indeed. So that

there grew to be a pleasant friendship between Miss Thorne and Mrs.

Crawley.

Johnny Eames, when last I heard of him, was still a bachelor, and, as

I think, likely to remain so. At last he had utterly thrown over Sir

Raffle Buffle, declaring to his friends that the special duties of

private secretaryship were not exactly to his taste. "You get so sick

at the thirteenth private note," he said, "that you find yourself

unable to carry on the humbug any farther." But he did not leave his

office. "I'm the head of a room, you know," he told Lady Julia De

Guest; "and there's nothing to trouble me,--and a fellow, you know,

ought to have something to do." Lady Julia told him, with a great

deal of energy, that she would never forgive him if he gave up his

office. After that eventful night when he escaped ignominiously from

the house of Lady Demolines under the protection of the policeman's

lantern, he did hear more than once from Porchester Terrace, and

from allies employed by the enemy who was there resident. "My cousin,

the serjeant," proved to be a myth. Johnny found out all about that

Serjeant Runter, who was distantly connected, indeed, with the late

husband of Lady Demolines, but had always persistently declined to

have any intercourse whatever with her ladyship. For the serjeant was

a rising man, and Lady Demolines was not exactly progressing in the

world. Johnny heard nothing from the serjeant; but from Madalina he

got letter after letter. In the first she asked him not to think

too much of the little joke that had occurred. In her second she

described the vehemence of her love. In her third the bitterness

of her wrath. Her fourth she simply invited him to come and

dine in Porchester Terrace. Her fifth was the outpouring of

injured innocence. And then came letters from an attorney. Johnny

answered not a word to any of them, and gradually the letters were

discontinued. Within six months of the receipt of the last, he was

delighted by reading among the marriages in the newspapers a notice

that Peter Bangles, Esq., of the firm of Burton and Bangles, wine

merchants, of Hook Court, had been united to Madalina, daughter of

the late Sir Confucius Demolines, at the church of Peter the Martyr.

"Most appropriate," said Johnny, as he read the notice to Conway

Dalrymple, who was then back from his wedding tour; "for most

assuredly there will be now another Peter the Martyr."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Conway, who had heard something of

Mr. Peter Bangles. "There are men who have strong wills of their own,

and strong hands of their own."

"Poor Madalina!" said Johnny. "If he does beat her, I hope he will

do it tenderly. It may be that a little of it will suit her fevered

temperament."

Before the summer was over Conway Dalrymple had been married to

Clara Van Siever, and by a singular arrangement of circumstances

had married her with the full approval of old Mrs. Van. Mr.

Musselboro,--whose name I hope has not been altogether forgotten,

though the part played by him has been subordinate,--had opposed

Dalrymple in the efforts made by the artist to get something out of

Broughton's estate for the benefit of the widow. From circumstances

of which Dalrymple learned the particulars with the aid of an

attorney, it seemed to him that certain facts were wilfully kept in

the dark by Musselboro, and he went with his complaint to Mrs. Van

Siever, declaring that he would bring the whole affair into court,

unless all the workings of the firm were made clear to him. Mrs. Van

was very insolent to him,--and even turned him out of the house. But,

nevertheless, she did not allow Mr. Musselboro to escape. Whoever was

to be left in the dark she did not wish to be there herself;--and

it began to dawn upon her that her dear Musselboro was deceiving

her. Then she sent for Dalrymple, and without a word of apology for

her former conduct, put him upon the right track. As he was pushing

his inquiries, and working heaven and earth for the unfortunate

widow,--as to whom he swore daily that when this matter was settled

he would never see her again, so terrible was she to him with her

mock affection and pretended hysterics, and false moralities,--he

was told one day that she had gone off with Mr. Musselboro! Mr.

Musselboro, finding that this was the surest plan of obtaining for

himself the little business in Hook Court, married the widow of his

late partner, and is at this moment probably carrying on a law-suit

with Mrs. Van. For the law-suit Conway Dalrymple cared nothing. When

the quarrel had become hot between Mrs. Van and her late myrmidon,

Clara fell into Conway's hands without opposition; and, let the

law-suit go as it may, there will be enough left of Mrs. Van's money

to make the house of Mr. and Mrs. Conway Dalrymple very comfortable.

The picture of Jael and Sisera was stitched up without any

difficulty, and I daresay most of my readers will remember it hanging

on the walls of the exhibition.

Before I take my leave of the diocese of Barchester for ever, which

I purpose to do in the succeeding paragraph, I desire to be allowed

to say one word of apology for myself, in answer to those who

have accused me,--always without bitterness, and generally with

tenderness,--of having forgotten, in writing of clergymen, the first

and most prominent characteristic of the ordinary English clergyman's

life. I have described many clergymen, they say, but have spoken of

them all as though their professional duties, their high calling,

their daily workings for the good of those around them, were matters

of no moment, either to me, or, in my opinion, to themselves. I would

plead, in answer to this, that my object has been to paint the social

and not the professional lives of clergymen; and that I have been led

to do so, firstly, by a feeling that as no men affect more strongly,

by their own character, the society of those around than do country

clergymen, so, therefore, their social habits have been worth the

labour necessary for painting them; and secondly, by a feeling

that though I, as a novelist, may feel myself entitled to write of

clergymen out of their pulpits, as I may also write of lawyers and

doctors, I have no such liberty to write of them in their pulpits.

When I have done so, if I have done so, I have so far transgressed.

There are those who have told me that I have made all my clergymen

bad, and none good. I must venture to hint to such judges that

they have taught their eyes to love a colouring higher than nature

justifies. We are, most of us, apt to love Raphael's madonnas

better than Rembrandt's matrons. But, though we do so, we know that

Rembrandt's matrons existed; but we have a strong belief that no

such woman as Raphael painted ever did exist. In that he painted,

as he may be surmised to have done, for pious purposes,--at least

for Church purposes,--Raphael was justified; but had he painted so

for family portraiture he would have been false. Had I written an

epic about clergymen, I would have taken St. Paul for my model; but

describing, as I have endeavoured to do, such clergymen as I see

around me, I could not venture to be transcendental. For myself I can

only say that I shall always be happy to sit, when allowed to do so,

at the table of Archdeacon Grantly, to walk through the High Street

of Barchester arm in arm with Mr. Robarts of Framley, and to stand

alone and shed a tear beneath the modest black stone in the north

transept of the cathedral on which is inscribed the name of Septimus

Harding.

And now, if the reader will allow me to seize him affectionately by

the arm, we will together take our last farewell of Barset and of the

towers of Barchester. I may not venture to say to him that, in this

country, he and I together have wandered often through the country

lanes, and have ridden together over the too-well wooded fields, or

have stood together in the cathedral nave listening to the peals

of the organ, or have together sat at good men's tables, or have

confronted together the angry pride of men who were not good. I may

not boast that any beside myself have so realized the place, and

the people, and the facts, as to make such reminiscences possible

as those which I should attempt to evoke by an appeal to perfect

fellowship. But to me Barset has been a real county, and its city a

real city, and the spires and towers have been before my eyes, and

the voices of the people are known to my ears, and the pavement of

the city ways are familiar to my footsteps. To them all I now say

farewell. That I have been induced to wander among them too long by

my love of old friendships, and by the sweetness of old faces, is

a fault for which I may perhaps be more readily forgiven, when I

repeat, with some solemnity of assurance, the promise made in my

title, that this shall be the last chronicle of Barset.