The Last Chronicle of Barset

  CHAPTER LVIII.

  THE CROSS-GRAINEDNESS OF MEN.

  By the time that the archdeacon reached Plumstead his enthusiasm infavour of Grace Crawley had somewhat cooled itself; and the languagewhich from time to time he prepared for conveying his impressions tohis wife, became less fervid as he approached his home. There was hispledge, and by that he would abide;--and so much he would make bothhis wife and his son understand. But any idea which he might haveentertained for a moment of extending the promise he had given andrelaxing that given to him was gone before he saw his own chimneys.Indeed, I fear he had by that time begun to feel that the onlysalvation now open to him must come from the jury's verdict. If thejury should declare Mr. Crawley to be guilty, then--; he would notsay even to himself that in such case all would be right, but he didfeel that much as he might regret the fate of the poor Crawleys, andof the girl whom in his warmth he had declared to be almost an angel,nevertheless to him personally such a verdict would bring consolatorycomfort.

  "I have seen Miss Crawley," he said to his wife, as soon as he hadclosed the door of his study, before he had been two minutes out ofthe chaise. He had determined that he would dash at the subject atonce, and he thus carried his resolution into effect.

  "You have seen Grace Crawley?"

  "Yes; I went up to the parsonage and called upon her. Lady Luftonadvised me to do so."

  "And Henry?"

  "Oh, Henry has gone. He was only there one night. I suppose he sawher, but I am not sure."

  "Would not Miss Crawley tell you?"

  "I forgot to ask her." Mrs. Grantly, at hearing this, expressed hersurprise by opening wide her eyes. He had gone all the way over toFramley on purpose to look after his son, and learn what were hisdoings, and when there he had forgotten to ask the person who couldhave given him better information than any one else! "But it does notsignify," continued the archdeacon "she said enough to me to makethat of no importance."

  "And what did she say?"

  "She said that she would never consent to marry Henry as long asthere was any suspicion abroad as to her father's guilt."

  "And you believe her promise?"

  "Certainly I do; I do not doubt it in the least. I put implicitconfidence in her. And I have promised her that if her father isacquitted,--I will withdraw my opposition."

  "No!"

  "But I have. And you would have done the same had you been there."

  "I doubt that, my dear. I am not so impulsive as you are."

  "You could not have helped yourself. You would have felt yourselfobliged to be equally generous with her. She came up to me and sheput her hand upon me--" "Psha!" said Mrs. Grantly. "But she did, mydear; and then she said, 'I promise you that I will not become yourson's wife while people think that papa stole this money.' What elsecould I do?"

  "And is she pretty?"

  "Very pretty; very beautiful."

  "And like a lady?"

  "Quite like a lady. There is no mistake about that."

  "And she behaved well?"

  "Admirably," said the archdeacon, who was in a measure compelledto justify the generosity into which he had been betrayed by hisfeelings.

  "Then she is a paragon," said Mrs. Grantly.

  "I don't know what you may call a paragon, my dear. I say that she isa lady, and that she is extremely good-looking, and that she behavedvery well. I cannot say less in her favour. I am sure you would notsay less yourself, if you had been present."

  "She must be a wonderful young woman."

  "I don't know anything about her being wonderful."

  "She must be wonderful when she has succeeded both with the son andwith the father."

  "I wish you had been there instead of me," said the archdeacon,angrily. Mrs. Grantly very probably wished so also, feeling that inthat case a more serene mode of business would have been adopted.How keenly susceptible the archdeacon still was to the influences offeminine charms, no one knew better than Mrs. Grantly, and whenevershe became aware that he had been in this way seduced from the wisdomof his cooler judgment she always felt something akin to indignationagainst the seducer. As for her husband, she probably told herself atsuch moments that he was an old goose. "If you had been there, andHenry with you, you would have made a great deal worse job of it thanI have done," said the archdeacon.

  "I don't say you have made a bad job of it, my dear," said Mrs.Grantly. "But it's past eight, and you must be terribly in want ofyour dinner. Had you not better go up and dress?"

  In the evening the plan of the future campaign was arranged betweenthem. The archdeacon would not write to his son at all. In passingthrough Barchester he had abandoned his idea of despatching a notefrom the hotel, feeling that such a note as would be required wasnot easily written in a hurry. Mrs. Grantly would now write to herson, telling him that circumstances had changed, that it would bealtogether unnecessary for him to sell his furniture, and begginghim to come over and see his father without a day's delay. She wroteher letter that night, and read to the archdeacon all that she hadwritten,--with the exception of the postscript:--"You may be quitesure that there will be no unpleasantness with your father." That wasthe postscript which was not communicated to the archdeacon.

  On the third day after that Henry Grantly did come over to Plumstead.His mother in her letter to him had not explained how it had come topass that the sale of his furniture would be unnecessary. His fatherhad given him to understand distinctly that his income would bewithdrawn from him unless he would express his intention of givingup Miss Crawley; and it had been admitted among them all that CosbyLodge must be abandoned if this were done. He certainly would notgive up Grace Crawley. Sooner than that, he would give up everystick in his possession, and go and live in New Zealand if it werenecessary. Not only had Grace's conduct to him made him thus firm,but the natural bent of his own disposition had tended that way also.His father had attempted to dictate to him, and sooner than submit tothat he would sell the coat off his back. Had his father confined hisopposition to advice, and had Miss Crawley been less firm in her viewof her duty, the major might have been less firm also. But thingshad so gone that he was determined to be fixed as granite. If otherswould not be moved from their resolves, neither would he. Such beingthe state of his mind, he could not understand why he was thussummoned to Plumstead. He had already written over to Pau about hishouse, and it was well that he should, at any rate, see his motherbefore he started. He was willing, therefore, to go to Plumstead, buthe took no steps as to the withdrawal of those auctioneer's bills towhich the archdeacon so strongly objected. When he drove into therectory yard, his father was standing there before him. "Henry," hesaid, "I am very glad to see you. I am very much obliged to you forcoming." Then Henry got out of his cart and shook hands with hisfather, and the archdeacon began to talk about the weather. "Yourmother has gone into Barchester to see your grandfather," said thearchdeacon. "If you are not tired, we might as well take a walk.I want to go up as far as Flurry's cottage." The major of coursedeclared that he was not at all tired, and that he should bedelighted of all things to go up and see old Flurry, and thus theystarted. Young Grantly had not even been into the house before heleft the yard with his father. Of course, he was thinking of thecoming sale at Cosby Lodge, and of his future life at Pau, and of hisinjured position in the world. There would be no longer any occasionfor him to be solicitous as to the Plumstead foxes. Of course thesethings were in his mind; but he could not begin to speak of them tillhis father did so. "I'm afraid your grandfather is not very strong,"said the archdeacon, shaking his head. "I fear he won't be with usvery long."

  "Is it so bad as that, sir?"

  "Well, you know, he is an old man, Henry; and he was always somewhatold for his age. He will be eighty, if he lives two years longer,I think. But he'll never reach eighty;--never. You must go and seehim before you go back home; you must indeed." The major, of course,promised that he would see his grandfather, and the archdeacon toldhis son how nearly the old man had fallen in the passage
between thecathedral and the deanery. In this way they had nearly made their wayup to the gamekeeper's cottage without a word of reference to anysubject that touched upon the matter of which each of them was ofcourse thinking. Whether the major intended to remain at home or tolive at Pau, the subject of Mr. Harding's health was a natural topicfor conversation between him and his father; but when his fatherstopped suddenly, and began to tell him how a fox had been trapped onDarvell's farm,--"and of course it was a Plumstead fox,--there can beno doubt that Flurry is right about that;"--when the archdeacon spokeof this iniquity with much warmth, and told his son how he had atonce written off to Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, and how Mr. Thornehad declared that he didn't believe a word of it, and how Flurryhad produced the pad of the fox, with the marks of the trap on theskin,--then the son began to feel that the ground was becoming verywarm, and that he could not go on much longer without rushing intodetails about Grace Crawley. "I've no more doubt that it was one ofour foxes than that I stand here," said the archdeacon.

  "It doesn't matter where the fox was bred. It shouldn't have beentrapped," said the major.

  "Of course not," said the archdeacon, indignantly. I wonder whetherhe would have been so keen had a Romanist priest come into hisparish, and turned one of his Protestants into a Papist?

  Then Flurry came up, and produced the identical pad out of hispocket. "I don't suppose it was intended," said the major, lookingat the interesting relic with scrutinizing eyes. "I suppose it wascaught in a rabbit-trap,--eh, Flurry?"

  "I don't see what right a man has with traps at all, when gentlemenis particular about their foxes," said Flurry. "Of course they'd callit rabbits."

  "I never liked that man on Darvell's farm," said the archdeacon.

  "Nor I either," said Flurry. "No farmer ought to be on that landwho don't have a horse of his own. And if I war Squire Thorne, Iwouldn't have no farmer there who didn't keep no horse. When a farmerhas a horse of his own, and follies the hounds, there ain't norabbit-traps;--never. How does that come about, Mr. Henry? Rabbits! Iknow very well what rabbits is!"

  Mr. Henry shook his head, and turned away, and the archdeaconfollowed him. There was an hypocrisy about this pretended care forthe foxes which displeased the major. He could not, of course, tellhis father that the foxes were no longer anything to him; but yethe must make it understood that such was his conviction. His motherhad written to him, saying that the sale of furniture need not takeplace. It might be all very well for his mother to say that, or forhis father; but, after what had taken place, he could consent toremain in England on no other understanding than that his incomeshould be made permanent to him. Such permanence must not be anylonger dependent on his father's caprice. In these days he had cometo be somewhat in love with poverty and Pau, and had been feeding onthe luxury of his grievance. There is, perhaps, nothing so pleasantas the preparation for self-sacrifice. To give up Cosby Lodge andthe foxes, to marry a penniless wife, and go and live at Pau on sixor seven hundred a year, seemed just now to Major Grantly to be afine thing, and he did not intend to abandon this fine thing withoutreceiving a very clear reason for doing so. "I can't quite understandThorne," said the archdeacon. "He used to be so particular about thefoxes, and I don't suppose that a country gentleman will change hisideas because he has given up hunting himself."

  "Mr. Thorne never thought much of Flurry," said Henry Grantly, withhis mind intent upon Pau and his grievance.

  "He might take my word at any rate," said the archdeacon.

  It was a known fact that the archdeacon's solicitude about thePlumstead covers was wholly on behalf of his son the major. The majorhimself knew this thoroughly, and felt that his father's presentspecial anxiety was intended as a corroboration of the tidingsconveyed in his mother's letter. Every word so uttered was meantto have reference to his son's future residence in the country."Father," he said, turning round shortly, and standing before thearchdeacon in the pathway, "I think you are quite right about thecovers. I feel sure that every gentleman who preserves a fox doesgood to the country. I am sorry that I shall not have a closerinterest in the matter myself."

  "Why shouldn't you have a closer interest in it?" said thearchdeacon.

  "Because I shall be living abroad."

  "You got your mother's letter?"

  "Yes; I got my mother's letter."

  "Did she not tell you that you can stay where you are?"

  "Yes, she said so. But, to tell you the truth, sir, I do not like therisk of living beyond my assured income." "But if I justify it?"

  "I do not wish to complain, sir, but you have made me understand thatyou can, and that in certain circumstances you will, at a moment,withdraw what you give me. Since this was said to me, I have feltmyself to be unsafe in such a house as Cosby Lodge."

  The archdeacon did not know how to explain. He had intended thatthe real explanation should be given by Mrs. Grantly, and had beenanxious to return to his old relations with his son without any exactterms on his own part. But his son was, as he thought, awkward, andwould drive him to some speech that was unnecessary. "You need not beunsafe there at all," he said, half angrily.

  "I must be unsafe if I am not sure of my income."

  "Your income is not in any danger. But you had better speak to yourmother about it. For myself, I think I may say that I have never yetbehaved to any of you with harshness. A son should, at any rate,not be offended because a father thinks that he is entitled to someconsideration for what he does."

  "There are some points on which a son cannot give way even to hisfather, sir."

  "You had better speak to your mother, Henry. She will explain to youwhat has taken place. Look at that plantation. You don't remember it,but every tree there was planted since you were born. I bought thatfarm from old Mr. Thorne, when he was purchasing St. Ewold's Downs,and it was the first bit of land I ever had of my own."

  "That is not in Plumstead, I think?"

  "No: this is Plumstead, where we stand, but that's in Eiderdown. Theparishes run in and out here. I never bought any other land as cheapas I bought that."

  "And did old Thorne make a good purchase at St. Ewold's?"

  "Yes, I fancy he did. It gave him the whole of the parish, which wasa great thing. It is astonishing how land has risen in value sincethat, and yet rents are not so very much higher. They who buy landnow can't have above two-and-a-half for their money."

  "I wonder people are so fond of land," said the major.

  "It is a comfortable feeling to know that you stand on your ownground. Land is about the only thing that can't fly away. And then,you see, land gives so much more than the rent. It gives position andinfluence and political power, to say nothing about the game. We'llgo back now. I daresay your mother will be at home by this time."

  The archdeacon was striving to teach a great lesson to his son whenhe thus spoke of the pleasure which a man feels when he stands uponhis own ground. He was bidding his son to understand how great wasthe position of an heir to a landed property, and how small theposition of a man depending on what Dr. Grantly himself would havecalled a scratch income,--an income made up of a few odds and ends,a share or two in this company and a share or two in that, a slightventure in foreign stocks, a small mortgage and such like convenientbut uninfluential driblets. A man, no doubt, may live at Pau ondriblets; may pay his way and drink his bottle of cheap wine, andenjoy life after a fashion while reading Galignani and looking at themountains. But,--as it seemed to the archdeacon,--when there was achoice between this kind of thing, and fox-covers at Plumstead, and aseat among the magistrates of Barsetshire, and an establishment fullof horses, beeves, swine, carriages, and hayricks, a man brought upas his son had been brought up ought not to be very long in choosing.It never entered into the archdeacon's mind that he was tempting hisson but Henry Grantly felt that he was having the good things of theworld shown to him, and that he was being told that they should behis--for a consideration.

  The major, in his present mood, looked at the matter from his ownpo
int of view, and determined that the consideration was too high.He was pledged not to give up Grace Crawley, and he would not yieldon that point, though he might be tempted by all the fox-covers inBarsetshire. At this moment he did not know how far his father wasprepared to yield, or how far it was expected that he should yieldhimself. He was told that he had to speak to his mother. He wouldspeak to his mother, but, in the meantime, he could not bring himselfto make a comfortable answer to his father's eloquent praise oflanded property. He could not allow himself to be enthusiastic on thematter till he knew what was expected of him if he chose to submit tobe made a British squire. At present Galignani and the mountains hadtheir charms for him. There was, therefore, but little conversationbetween the father and the son as they walked back to the rectory.

  Late that night the major heard the whole story from his mother.Gradually, and as though unintentionally, Mrs. Grantly told him allshe knew of the archdeacon's visit to Framley. Mrs. Grantly was quiteas anxious as was her husband to keep her son at home, and thereforeshe omitted in her story those little sneers against Grace which sheherself had been tempted to make by the archdeacon's fervour in thegirl's favour. The major said as little as was possible while he wasbeing told of his father's adventure, and expressed neither angernor satisfaction till he had been made thoroughly to understand thatGrace had pledged herself not to marry him as long as any suspicionshould rest upon her father's name.

  "Your father is quite satisfied with her," said Mrs. Grantly. "Hethinks that she is behaving very well."

  "My father had no right to exact such a pledge."

  "But she made it of her own accord. She was the first to speak aboutMr. Crawley's supposed guilt. Your father never mentioned it."

  "He must have led to it; and I think he had no right to do so. He hadno right to go to her at all."

  "Now don't be foolish, Henry."

  "I don't see that I am foolish."

  "Yes, you are. A man is foolish if he won't take what he wantswithout asking exactly how he is to come by it. That your fathershould be anxious is the most natural thing in the world. You knowhow high he has always held his own head, and how much he thinksabout the characters and position of clergymen. It is not surprisingthat he should dislike the idea of such a marriage."

  "Grace Crawley would disgrace no family," said the lover.

  "That's all very well for you to say, and I'll take your word that itis so;--that is as far as the young lady goes herself. And there'syour father almost as much in love with her as you are. I don't knowwhat you would have?"

  "I would be left alone."

  "But what harm has been done you? From what you yourself have toldme, I know that Miss Crawley has said the same thing to you that shehas said to your father. You can't but admire her for the feeling."

  "I admire her for everything."

  "Very well. We don't say anything against that."

  "And I don't mean to give her up."

  "Very well again. Let us hope that Mr. Crawley will be acquitted, andthen all will be right. Your father never goes back from his promise.He is always better than his word. You'll find that if Mr. Crawleyis acquitted, or if he escapes in any way, your father will only behappy of an excuse to make much of the young lady. You should not behard on him, Henry. Don't you see that it is his one great desire tokeep you near to him? The sight of those odious bills nearly brokehis heart."

  "Then why did he threaten me?"

  "Henry, you are obstinate."

  "I am not obstinate, mother."

  "Yes, you are. You remember nothing, and you forget nothing. Youexpect everything to be made smooth for you, and will do nothingtowards making things smooth for anybody else. You ought to promiseto give up the sale. If the worst came to the worst, your fatherwould not let you suffer in pocket for yielding to him in so much."

  "If the worst comes to the worst, I wish to take nothing from myfather."

  "You won't put off the sale, then?"

  The son paused a moment before he answered his mother, thinking overall the circumstances of his position. "I cannot do so as long as Iam subject to my father's threat," he said at last. "What took placebetween my father and Miss Crawley can go for nothing with me. He hastold me that his allowance to me is to be withdrawn. Let him tell methat he has reconsidered the matter."

  "But he has not withdrawn it. The last quarter was paid to youraccount only the other day. He does not mean to withdraw it."

  "Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living atCosby Lodge does not depend on my marriage,--that my income will becontinued to me whether I marry or no, and I'll arrange matters withthe auctioneer to-morrow. You can't suppose that I should prefer tolive in France."

  "Henry, you are too hard on your father."

  "I think, mother, he has been too hard upon me."

  "It is you that are to blame now. I tell you plainly that that is myopinion. If evil comes of it, it will be your own fault."

  "If evil come of it I must bear it."

  "A son ought to give up something to his father;--especially to afather so indulgent as yours."

  But it was of no use. And Mrs. Grantly when she went to her bed couldonly lament in her own mind over what, in discussing the matterafterwards with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men."They are as like each other as two peas," she said, "and though eachof them wished to be generous, neither of them would condescend to bejust." Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much saidon the subject between the archdeacon and his wife before they mettheir son at breakfast; but neither at breakfast nor afterwards wasthere a word said between the father and son that had the slightestreference to the subject in dispute between them. The archdeacon madeno more speeches in favour of land, nor did he revert to the foxes.He was very civil to his son--too civil by half, as Mrs. Grantlycontinued to say to herself. And then the major drove himself awayin his cart, going through Barchester, so that he might see hisgrandfather. When he wished his father good-by, the archdeacon shookhands with him, and said something about the chance of rain. Had henot better take the big umbrella? The major thanked him courteously,and said that he did not think it would rain. Then he was gone. "Uponhis own head be it," said the archdeacon when his son's step washeard in the passage leading to the back-yard. Then Mrs. Grantly gotup quietly and followed her son. She found him settling himself inhis dog-cart, while the servant who was to accompany him was stillat the horse's head. She went up close to him, and, standing by thewheel of the gig, whispered a word or two into his ear. "If you loveme, Henry, you will postpone the sale. Do it for my sake." There cameacross his face a look of great pain, but he answered her not a word.

  The archdeacon was walking about the room striking one hand openwith the other closed, clearly in a tumult of anger, when his wifereturned to him. "I have done all that I can," he said,--"all that Ican; more, indeed, than was becoming for me. Upon his own head be it.Upon his own head be it!"

  "What is it that you fear?" she asked.

  "I fear nothing. But if he chooses to sell his things at Cosby Lodgehe must abide the consequences. They shall not be replaced with mymoney."

  "What will it matter if he does sell them?"

  "Matter! Do you think there is a single person in the county who willnot know that his doing so is a sign that he has quarrelled with me?"

  "But he has not quarrelled with you."

  "I can tell you then, that in that case I shall have quarrelled withhim! I have not been a hard father, but there are some things which aman cannot bear. Of course you will take his part."

  "I am taking no part. I only want to see peace between you."

  "Peace!--yes; peace indeed. I am to yield in everything. I am to benobody. Look here;--as sure as ever an auctioneer's hammer is raisedat Cosby Lodge, I will alter the settlement of the property. Everyacre shall belong to Charles. There is my word for it." The poorwoman had nothing more to say;--nothing more to say at that moment.She thought that at the present conjuncture her h
usband was less inthe wrong than her son, but she could not tell him so lest she shouldstrengthen him in his wrath.

  Henry Grantly found his grandfather in bed, with Posy seated on thebed beside him. "My father told me that you were not quite well, andI thought that I would look in," said the major.

  "Thank you, my dear;--it is very good of you. There is not much thematter with me, but I am not quite so strong as I was once." And theold man smiled as he held his grandson's hand.

  "And how is cousin Posy?" said the major.

  "Posy is quite well;--isn't she, my darling?" said the old man.

  "Grandpa doesn't go to the cathedral now," said Posy; "so I come into talk to him. Don't I, grandpa?"

  "And to play cat's-cradle;--only we have not had any cat's-cradlethis morning,--have we, Posy?"

  "Mrs. Baxter told me not to play this morning, because it's cold forgrandpa to sit up in bed," said Posy.

  When the major had been there about twenty minutes he was preparingto take his leave,--but Mr. Harding, bidding Posy to go out of theroom, told his grandson that he had a word to say to him. "I don'tlike to interfere, Henry," he said, "but I am afraid that things arenot quite smooth at Plumstead."

  "There is nothing wrong between me and my mother," said the major.

  "God forbid that there should be; but, my dear boy, don't let therebe anything wrong between you and your father. He is a good man, andthe time will come when you will be proud of his memory."

  "I am proud of him now."

  "Then be gentle with him,--and submit yourself. I am an old mannow,--very fast going away from all those I love here. But I am happyin leaving my children because they have ever been gentle to me andkind. If I am permitted to remember them whither I am going, mythoughts of them will all be pleasant. Should it not be much to themthat they have made my death-bed happy?"

  The major could not but tell himself that Mr. Harding had been a maneasy to please, easy to satisfy, and, in that respect, very differentfrom his father. But of course he said nothing of this. "I will do mybest," he replied.

  "Do, my boy. Honour thy father,--that thy days may be long in theland."

  "Honour thy Father,--that thy days may be long in theLand."]

  It seemed to the major as he drove away from Barchester thateverybody was against him; and yet he was sure that he himself wasright. He could not give up Grace Crawley; and unless he were to doso he could not live at Cosby Lodge.