The Last Chronicle of Barset

  CHAPTER XLI.

  GRACE CRAWLEY AT HOME.

  On the morning after his return from London Mr. Crawley showedsymptoms of great fatigue, and his wife implored him to remain inbed. But this he would not do. He would get up, and go out down tothe brickfields. He had specially bound himself,--he said, to seethat the duties of the parish did not suffer by being left in hishands. The bishop had endeavoured to place them in other hands, buthe had persisted in retaining them. As he had done so he could allowno weariness of his own to interfere,--and especially no wearinessinduced by labours undertaken on his own behalf. The day in the weekhad come round on which it was his wont to visit the brickmakers, andhe would visit them. So he dragged himself out of his bed and wentforth amidst the cold storm of a harsh wet March morning. His wifewell knew when she heard his first word on that morning that one ofthose terrible moods had come upon him which made her doubt whethershe ought to allow him to go anywhere alone. Latterly there had beensome improvement in his mental health. Since the day of his encounterwith the bishop and Mrs. Proudie, though he had been as stubbornas ever, he had been less apparently unhappy, less depressed inspirits. And the journey to London had done him good. His wife hadcongratulated herself on finding him able to set about his work likeanother man, and he himself had experienced a renewal, if not ofhope, at any rate, of courage, which had given him a comfort which hehad recognized. His common-sense had not been very striking in hisinterview with Mr. Toogood, but yet he had talked more rationallythen and had given a better account of the matter in hand than couldhave been expected from him for some weeks previously. But now thatthe labour was over, a reaction had come upon him, and he went awayfrom his house having hardly spoken a word to his wife after thespeech which he made about his duty to his parish.

  I think that at this time nobody saw clearly the working of hismind,--not even his wife, who studied it very closely, who gave himcredit for all his high qualities, and who had gradually learned toacknowledge to herself that she must distrust his judgment in manythings. She knew that he was good and yet weak, that he was afflictedby false pride and supported by true pride, that his intellect wasstill very bright, yet so dismally obscured on many sides as almostto justify people in saying that he was mad. She knew that he wasalmost a saint, and yet almost a castaway through vanity and hatredof those above him. But she did not know that he knew all this ofhimself also. She did not comprehend that he should be hourly tellinghimself that people were calling him mad and were so calling him withtruth. It did not occur to her that he could see her insight intohim. She doubted as to the way in which he had got the cheque,--neverimagining, however, that he had wilfully stolen it;--thinking thathis mind had been so much astray as to admit of his finding it andusing it without wilful guilt,--thinking also, alas, that a man whocould so act was hardly fit for such duties as those which wereentrusted to him. But she did not dream that this was precisely hisown idea of his own state and of his own position--that he wasalways inquiring of himself whether he was not mad; whether, if mad,he was not bound to lay down his office; that he was ever taxinghimself with improper hostility to the bishop,--never forgettingfor a moment his wrath against the bishop and the bishop's wife,still comforting himself with his triumph over the bishop and thebishop's wife,--but, for all that, accusing himself of a heavy sinand proposing to himself to go to the palace and there humbly torelinquish his clerical authority. Such a course of action he wasproposing to himself, but not with any realized idea that he wouldso act. He was as a man who walks along a river's bank thinking ofsuicide, calculating how best he might kill himself,--whether theriver does not offer an opportunity too good to be neglected, tellinghimself that for many reasons he had better do so, suggesting tohimself that the water is pleasant and cool, and that his ears wouldsoon be deaf to the harsh noises of the world,--but yet knowing,or thinking that he knows, that he never will kill himself. So itwas with Mr. Crawley. Though his imagination pictured to himselfthe whole scene,--how he would humble himself to the ground as heacknowledged his unfitness, how he would endure the small-voicedtriumph of the little bishop, how, from the abjectness of his ownhumility, even from the ground on which he would be crouching, hewould rebuke the loud-mouthed triumph of the bishop's wife; thoughthere was no touch wanting to the picture which he thus drew,--he didnot really propose to himself to commit this professional suicide.His wife, too, had considered whether it might be in truth becomingthat he should give up his clerical duties, at any rate for a while;but she had never thought that the idea was present to his mind also.

  Mr. Toogood had told him that people would say that he was mad; andMr. Toogood had looked at him, when he declared for the second timethat he had no knowledge whence the cheque had come to him, as thoughhis words were to be regarded as the words of some sick child. "Mad!"he said to himself, as he walked home from the station that night."Well; yes; and what if I am mad? When I think of all that I haveendured my wonder is that I should not have been mad sooner." Andthen he prayed,--yes, prayed, that in his madness the Devil mightnot be too strong for him, and that he might be preserved from someterrible sin of murder or violence. What, if the idea should come tohim in his madness that it would be well for him to slay his wife andhis children? Only that was wanting to make him of all men the mostunfortunate.

  He went down among the brickmakers on the following morning, leavingthe house almost without a morsel of food, and he remained at HoggleEnd for the greater part of the day. There were sick persons therewith whom he prayed, and then he sat talking with rough men whilethey ate their dinners, and he read passages from the Bible to womenwhile they washed their husbands' clothes. And for a while he satwith a little girl in his lap teaching the child her alphabet. If itwere possible for him he would do his duty. He would spare himselfin nothing, though he might suffer even to fainting. And on thisoccasion he did suffer,--almost to fainting, for as he returned homein the afternoon he was forced to lean from time to time against thebanks on the road-side, while the cold sweat of weakness trickleddown his face, in order that he might recover strength to go on a fewyards. But he would persevere. If God would but leave to him mindenough for his work, he would go on. No personal suffering shoulddeter him. He told himself that there had been men in the world whosesufferings were sharper even than his own. Of what sort had been thelife of the man who had stood for years on the top of a pillar? Butthen the man on the pillar had been honoured by all around him. Andthus, though he had thought of the man on the pillar to encouragehimself by remembering how lamentable had been that man's suffering,he came to reflect that after all his own sufferings were perhapskeener than those of the man on the pillar.

  When he reached home, he was very ill. There was no doubt about itthen. He staggered to his arm-chair, and stared at his wife first,then smiled at her with a ghastly smile. He trembled all over, andwhen food was brought to him he could not eat it. Early on the nextmorning the doctor was by his bedside, and before that evening camehe was delirious. He had been at intervals in this state for nearlytwo days, when Mrs. Crawley wrote to Grace, and though she hadrestrained herself from telling everything, she had written withsufficient strength to bring Grace at once to her father's bedside.

  He was not so ill when Grace arrived but that he knew her, and heseemed to receive some comfort from her coming. Before she had beenin the house an hour she was reading Greek to him, and there wasno wandering in his mind as to the due emphasis to be given to theplaints of the injured heroines, or as to the proper meaning of thechoruses. And as he lay with his head half buried in the pillows, heshouted out long passages, lines from tragic plays by the score, andfor a while seemed to have all the enjoyment of a dear old pleasureplaced newly within his reach. But he tired of this after a while,and then, having looked round to see that his wife was not in theroom, he began to talk of himself.

  "So you have been at Allington, my dear?"

  "Yes, papa."

  "Is it a pretty place?"

  "Yes, papa;--very pretty."
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  "And they were good to you?"

  "Yes, papa;--very good."

  "Had they heard anything there about--me; of this trial that is tocome on?"

  "Yes, papa; they had heard of it."

  "And what did they say? You need not think that you will shock meby telling me. They cannot say worse there than people have saidhere,--or think worse."

  "They don't think at all badly of you at Allington, papa."

  "But they must think badly of me if the magistrates were right?"

  "They suppose that there has been a mistake;--as we all think."

  "They do not try men at the assizes for mistakes."

  "That you have been mistaken, I mean;--and the magistrates mistaken."

  "Both cannot have been mistaken, Grace."

  "I don't know how to explain myself, papa; but we all know that it isvery sad, and are quite sure that you have never meant for one momentto do anything that was wrong."

  "But people when they are,--you know what I mean, Grace; when theyare not themselves,--do things that are wrong without meaning it."Then he paused, while she remained standing by him with her hand onthe back of his. She was looking at his face, which had been turnedtowards her while they were reading together, but which now was sofar moved that she knew that his eyes could not be fixed upon hers."Of course if the bishop orders it, it shall be so," he said. "It isquite enough for me that he is the bishop."

  "What has the bishop ordered, papa?"

  "Nothing at all. It is she who does it. He has given no opinion aboutit. Of course not. He has none to give. It is the woman. You go andtell her from me that in such a matter I will not obey the word ofany woman living. Go at once, when I tell you."

  Then she knew that her father's mind was wandering, and she kneltdown by the bedside, still holding his hand.

  "Grace," he said.

  "Yes, papa, I am here."

  "Why do you not do what I tell you?" And he sat upright in his bed."I suppose you are afraid of the woman?"

  "I should be afraid of her, dear papa."

  "I was not afraid of her. When she spoke to me, I would have nothingto say to her;--not a word; not a word;--not a word." As he said thishe waved his hands about. "But as for him,--if it must be, it must. Iknow I'm not fit for it. Of course I am not. Who is? But what has heever done that he should be a dean? I beat him at everything; almostat everything. He got the Newdegate, and that was about all. Upon myword I think that was all."

  "But Dr. Arabin loves you truly, dear papa."

  "Love me! psha! Does he ever come here to tea, as he used to do? No!I remember buttering toast for him down on my knees before the fire,because he liked it,--and keeping all the cream for him. He shouldhave had my heart's blood if he wanted it. But now;--look at hisbooks, Grace. It's the outside of them he cares about. They are allgilt, but I doubt if he ever reads. As for her,--I will not allowany woman to tell me my duty. No;--by my Maker; not even your mother,who is the best of women. And as for her, with her little husbanddangling at her apron-strings, as a call-whistle to be blown intowhen she pleases,--that she should dare to teach me my duty! No! Themen in the jury-box may decide it how they will. If they can believea plain story, let them! If not,--let them do as they please. I amready to bear it all."

  "Dear papa, you are tired. Will you not try to sleep?"

  "Tell Mrs. Proudie what I say; and as for Arabin's money, I tookit. I know I took it. What would you have had me do? Shall I--seethem--all--starve?" Then he fell back upon his bed and did sleep.

  The next day he was better, and insisted upon getting out of bed,and on sitting in his old arm-chair over the fire. And the Greekbooks were again had out; and Grace, not at all unwillingly, wasput through her facings. "If you don't take care, my dear," he said,"Jane will beat you yet. She understands the force of the verbsbetter than you do."

  "I am very glad that she is doing so well, papa. I am sure I shallnot begrudge her her superiority."

  "Ah, but you should begrudge it her!" Jane was sitting by at thetime, and the two sisters were holding each other by the hand."Always to be best;--always to be in advance of others. That shouldbe your motto."

  "But we can't both be best, papa," said Jane.

  "You can both strive to be best. But Grace has the better voice. Iremember when I knew the whole of the Antigone by heart. You girlsshould see which can learn it first."

  "It would take such a long time," said Jane.

  "You are young, and what can you do better with your leisure hours?Fie, Jane! I did not expect that from you. When I was learning it Ihad eight or nine pupils, and read an hour a day with each of them.But I think that nobody works now as they used to work then. Where isyour mamma? Tell her I think I could get out as far as Mrs. Cox's, ifshe would help me to dress." Soon after this he was in bed again, andhis head was wandering; but still they knew that he was better thanhe had been.

  "You are more of a comfort to your papa than I can be," said Mrs.Crawley to her eldest daughter that night as they sat together, wheneverybody else was in bed.

  "Do not say that, mamma. Papa does not think so."

  "I cannot read Greek plays to him as you can do. I can only nurse himin his illness and endeavour to do my duty. Do you know, Grace, thatI am beginning to fear that he half doubts me?"

  "Oh, mamma!"

  "That he half doubts me, and is half afraid of me. He does not thinkas he used to do, that I am altogether, heart and soul, on his side.I can see it in his eye as he watches me. He thinks that I am tiredof him,--tired of his sufferings, tired of his poverty, tired of theevil which men say of him. I am not sure but what he thinks that Isuspect him."

  "Of what, mamma?"

  "Of general unfitness for the work he has to do. The feeling is notstrong as yet, but I fear that he will teach himself to think thathe has an enemy at his hearth,--not a friend. It will be the saddestmistake he ever made."

  "He told me to-day that you were the best of women. Those were hisvery words."

  "Were they, my dear? I am glad at least that he should say so to you.He has been better since you came;--a great deal better. For one dayI was frightened; but I am sorry now that I sent for you."

  "I am so glad, mamma; so very glad."

  "You were happy there,--and comfortable. And if they were glad tohave you, why should I have brought you away?"

  "But I was not happy;--even though they were very good to me. Howcould I be happy there when I was thinking of you and papa and Janehere at home? Whatever there is here, I would sooner share it withyou than be anywhere else,--while this trouble lasts."

  "My darling!--it is a great comfort to see you again."

  "Only that I knew that one less in the house would be a saving to youI should not have gone. When there is unhappiness, people should staytogether;--shouldn't they, mamma?" They were sitting quite close toeach other, on an old sofa in a small upstairs room, from which adoor opened into the larger chamber in which Mr. Crawley was lying.It had been arranged between them that on this night Mrs. Crawleyshould remain with her husband, and that Grace should go to her bed.It was now past one o'clock, but she was still there, clinging to hermother's side, with her mother's arm drawn round her. "Mamma," shesaid, when they had both been silent for some ten minutes, "I havegot something to tell you."

  "Mamma, I've got something to tell you."]

  "To-night?"

  "Yes, mamma; to-night, if you will let me."

  "But you promised that you would go to bed. You were up all lastnight."

  "I am not sleepy, mamma."

  "Of course you shall tell me what you please, dearest. Is it asecret? Is it something I am not to repeat?"

  "You must say how that ought to be, mamma. I shall not tell it to anyone else."

  "Well, dear?"

  "Sit comfortably, mamma;--there; like that, and let me have yourhand. It's a terrible story to have to tell."

  "A terrible story, Grace?"

  "I mean that you must not draw away from me. I shall want
to feelthat you are quite close to me. Mamma, while I was at Allington,Major Grantly came there."

  "Did he, my dear?"

  "Yes, mamma."

  "Did he know them before?"

  "No, mamma; not at the Small House. But he came there--to see me. Heasked me--to be his wife. Don't move, mamma."

  "My darling child! I won't move, dearest. Well; and what did yousay to him? God bless him, at any rate. May God bless him, becausehe has seen with a true eye, and felt with a noble instinct. It issomething, Grace, to have been wooed by such a man at such a time."

  "Mamma, it did make me feel proud; it did."

  "You had known him well before,--of course? I knew that you and hewere friends, Grace."

  "Yes, we were friends. I always liked him. I used not to know what tothink about him. Miss Anne Prettyman told me that it would be so; andonce before I thought so myself."

  "And had you made up your mind what to say to him?"

  "Yes, I had then. But I did not say it."

  "Did not say what you had made up your mind to say?"

  "That was before all this had happened to papa."

  "I understand you, dearest."

  "When Miss Anne Prettyman told me that I should be ready with myanswer, and when I saw that Miss Prettyman herself used to let himcome to the house and seemed to wish that I should see him when hecame, and when he once was--so very gentle and kind, and when he saidthat he wanted me to love Edith,-- Oh, mamma!"

  "Yes, darling, I know. Of course you loved him."

  "Yes, mamma. And I do love him. How could one not love him?"

  "I love him,--for loving you."

  "But, mamma, one is bound not to do a harm to any one that one loves.So when he came to Allington I told him that I could not be hiswife."

  "Did you, my dear?"

  "Yes; I did. Was I not right? Ought I to go to him to bring adisgrace upon all the family, just because he is so good that he asksme? Shall I injure him because he wants to do me a service?"

  "If he loves you, Grace, the service he will require will be yourlove in return."

  "That is all very well, mamma,--in books; but I do not believe it inreality. Being in love is very nice, and in poetry they make it outto be everything. But I do not think I should make Major Grantlyhappy if when I became his wife his own father and mother would notsee him. I know I should be so wretched, myself, that I could notlive."

  "But would it be so?"

  "Yes;--I think it would. And the archdeacon is very rich, and canleave all his money away from Major Grantly if he pleases. Think whatI should feel if I were the cause of Edith losing her fortune!"

  "But why do you suppose these terrible things?"

  "I have a reason for supposing them. This must be a secret. Miss AnnePrettyman wrote to me."

  "I wish Miss Anne Prettyman's hand had been in the fire."

  "No, mamma; no; she was right. Would not I have wished, do you think,to have learned all the truth about the matter before I answered him?Besides, it made no difference. I could have made no other answerwhile papa is under such a terrible ban. It is no time for us tothink of being in love. We have got to love each other. Isn't itso, mamma?" The mother did not answer in words, but slipping downon her knees before her child threw her arms round her girl's bodyin a close embrace. "Dear mamma; dearest mamma; this is what Iwanted;--that you should love me!"

  "Love you, my angel!"

  "And trust me;--and that we should understand each other, and standclose by each other. We can do so much to comfort one another;--butwe cannot comfort other people."

  "He must know that best himself, Grace;--but what did he say more toyou?"

  "I don't think he said anything more."

  "He just left you then?"

  "He said one thing more."

  "And what was that?"

  "He said;--but he had no right to say it."

  "What was it, dear?"

  "That he knew I loved him, and that therefore-- But, mamma, do notthink of that. I will never be his wife,--never, in opposition to hisfamily."

  "But he did not take your answer?"

  "He must take it, mamma. He shall take it. If he can be stubborn, socan I. If he knows how to think of me more than himself, I can thinkof him and Edith more than of myself. That is not quite all, mamma.Then he wrote to me. There is his letter."

  Mrs. Crawley read the letter. "I suppose you answered it?"

  "Yes, I answered it. It was very bad, my letter. I should think afterthat he will never want to have anything more to say to me. I triedfor two days, but I could not write a nice letter."

  "But what did you say?"

  "I don't in the least remember. It does not in the least signify now,but it was such a bad letter."

  "I daresay it was very nice."

  "It was terribly stiff, and all about a gentleman."

  "All about a gentleman! What do you mean, my dear?"

  "Gentleman is such a frightful word to have to use to a gentleman;but I did not know what else to say. Mamma, if you please, we won'ttalk about it;--not about the letter I mean. As for him, I'lltalk about him for ever if you like it. I don't mean to be a bitbroken-hearted."

  "It seems to me that he is a gentleman."

  "Yes, mamma, that he is; and it is that which makes me so proud.When I think of it, I can hardly hold myself. But now I've told youeverything, and I'll go away, and go to bed."