CHAPTER LXXVII.
THE ARABINS RETURN TO BARCHESTER.
In these days Mr. Harding was keeping his bed at the deanery, andmost of those who saw him declared that he would never again leaveit. The archdeacon had been slow to believe so, because he hadstill found his father-in-law able to talk to him;--not indeed withenergy, but then Mr. Harding had never been energetic on ordinarymatters,--but with the same soft cordial interest in things which hadever been customary with him. He had latterly been much interestedabout Mr. Crawley, and would make both the archdeacon and Mrs.Grantly tell him all that they heard, and what they thought of thecase. This of course had been before the all-important news had beenreceived from Mrs. Arabin. Mr. Harding was very anxious, "Firstly,"as he said, "for the welfare of the poor man, of whom I cannotbring myself to think ill; and then for the honour of the clothin Barchester." "We are as liable to have black sheep here aselsewhere," the archdeacon replied. "But, my dear, I do not thinkthat the sheep is black; and we never have had black sheep inBarchester." "Haven't we though?" said the archdeacon, thinking,however, of sheep who were black with a different kind of blacknessfrom this which was now attributed to poor Mr. Crawley,--of ablackness which was not absolute blackness to Mr. Harding's mildereyes. The archdeacon, when he heard his father-in-law talk after thisfashion, expressed his opinion that he might live yet for years. Hewas just the man to linger on, living in bed,--as indeed he hadlingered all his life out of bed. But the doctor who attended himthought otherwise, as did also Mrs. Grantly, and as did Mrs. Baxter,and as also did Posy. "Grandpa won't get up any more, will he?"Posy said to Mrs. Baxter. "I hope he will, my dear; and that verysoon." "I don't think he will," said Posy, "because he said he wouldnever see the big fiddle again." "That comes of his being a littlemelancholy like, my dear," said Mrs. Baxter.
Mrs. Grantly at this time went into Barchester almost every day, andthe archdeacon, who was very often in the city, never went therewithout passing half-an-hour with the old man. These two clergymen,essentially different in their characters and in every detail ofconduct, had been so much thrown together by circumstances thatthe life of each had almost become a part of the life of the other.Although the fact of Mr. Harding's residence at the deanery had oflate years thrown him oftener into the society of the dean than thatof his other son-in-law, yet his intimacy with the archdeacon hadbeen so much earlier, and his memories of the archdeacon were so muchclearer, that he depended almost more upon the rector of Plumstead,who was absent, than he did upon the dean, whom he customarily sawevery day. It was not so with his daughters. His Nelly, as he hadused to call her, had ever been his favourite, and the circumstancesof their joint lives had been such, that they had never been furtherseparated than from one street of Barchester to another,--and thatonly for the very short period of the married life of Mrs. Arabin'sfirst husband. For all that was soft and tender therefore,--whichwith Mr. Harding was all in the world that was charming to him,--helooked to his youngest daughter; but for authority and guidance andwisdom, and for information as to what was going on in the world, hehad still turned to his son-in-law the archdeacon,--as he had donefor nearly forty years. For so long had the archdeacon been potent asa clergyman in the diocese, and throughout the whole duration of suchpotency his word had been law to Mr. Harding in most of the affairsof life,--a law generally to be obeyed, and if sometimes to bebroken, still a law. And now, when all was so nearly over, he wouldbecome unhappy if the archdeacon's visits were far between. Dr.Grantly, when he found that this was so, would not allow that theyshould be far between.
"He puts me so much in mind of my father," the archdeacon said to hiswife one day.
"He is not so old as your father was when he died, by many years,"said Mrs. Grantly, "and I think one sees that difference."
"Yes;--and therefore I say that he may still live for years. Myfather, when he took to his bed at last, was manifestly near hisdeath. The wonder with him was that he continued to live so long.Do you not remember how the London doctor was put out because hisprophecies were not fulfilled?"
"I remember it well;--as if it were yesterday."
"And in that way there is a great difference. My father, who wasphysically a much stronger man, did not succumb so easily. But thelikeness is in their characters. There is the same mild sweetness,becoming milder and sweeter as they increased in age;--a sweetnessthat never could believe much evil, but that could believe less,and still less, as the weakness of age came on them. No amount ofevidence would induce your father to think that Mr. Crawley stolethat money." This was said of course before the telegram had comefrom Venice.
"As far as that goes I agree with him," said Mrs. Grantly, who hadher own reasons for choosing to believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent."If your son, my dear, is to marry a man's daughter, it will be aswell that you should at least be able to say that you do not believethat man to be a thief."
"That is neither here nor there," said the archdeacon. "A jury mustdecide it."
"No jury in Barsetshire shall decide it for me," said Mrs. Grantly.
"I'm sick of Mr. Crawley, and I'm sorry I spoke of him," said thearchdeacon. "But look at Mrs. Proudie. You'll agree that she was notthe most charming woman in the world."
"She certainly was not," said Mrs. Grantly, who was anxious toencourage her husband, if she could do so without admitting anythingwhich might injure herself afterwards.
"And she was at one time violently insolent to your father. And eventhe bishop thought to trample upon him. Do you remember the bishop'spreaching against your father's chaunting? If I ever forget it!" Andthe archdeacon slapped his closed fist against his open hand.
"Don't, dear; don't. What is the good of being violent now?"
"Paltry little fool! It will be long enough before such a chaunt asthat is heard in any English cathedral again." Then Mrs. Grantly gotup and kissed her husband, but he, somewhat negligent of the kiss,went on with his speech. "But your father remembers nothing of it,and if there was a single human being who shed a tear in Barchesterfor that woman, I believe it was your father. And it was the samewith mine. It came to that at last, that I could not bear to speakto him of any shortcoming as to one of his own clergymen. I might aswell have pricked him with a penknife. And yet they say men becomeheartless and unfeeling as they grow old!"
"Some do, I suppose."
"Yes; the heartless and unfeeling do. As the bodily strength failsand the power of control becomes lessened, the natural aptitude ofthe man pronounces itself more clearly. I take it that that is it.Had Mrs. Proudie lived to be a hundred and fifty, she would havespoken spiteful lies on her deathbed." Then Mrs. Grantly toldherself that her husband, should he live to be a hundred and fifty,would still be expressing his horror of Mrs. Proudie,--even on hisdeathbed.
As soon as the letter from Mrs. Arabin had reached Plumstead, thearchdeacon and his wife arranged that they would both go together tothe deanery. There were the double tidings to be told,--those of Mr.Crawley's assured innocence, and those also of Mrs. Arabin's instantreturn. And as they went together various ideas were passing throughtheir minds in reference to the marriage of their son with GraceCrawley. They were both now reconciled to it. Mrs. Grantly had longceased to feel any opposition to it, even though she had not seenGrace; and the archdeacon was prepared to give way. Had he notpromised that in a certain case he would give way, and had not thatcase now come to pass? He had no wish to go back from his word. Buthe had a difficulty in this,--that he liked to make all the affairsof his life matter for enjoyment, almost for triumph; but how washe to be triumphant over this marriage, or how even was he to enjoyit, seeing that he had opposed it so bitterly? Those posters, thoughthey were now pulled down, had been up on all barn ends and walls,patent--alas, too patent--to all the world of Barsetshire! "What willMr. Crawley do now, do you suppose?" said Mrs. Grantly.
"What will he do?"
"Yes; must he go on at Hogglestock?"
"What else?" said the archdeacon.
"It is a pity somethi
ng could not be done for him after all he hasundergone. How on earth can he be expected to live there with awife and family, and no private means?" To this the archdeacon madeno answer. Mrs. Grantly had spoken almost immediately upon theirquitting Plumstead, and the silence was continued till the carriagehad entered the suburbs of the city. Then Mrs. Grantly spoke again,asking a question, with some internal trepidation, which, however,she managed to hide from her husband. "When poor papa does go, whatshall you do about St. Ewold's?" Now, St. Ewold's was a rural parishlying about two miles out of Barchester, the living of which was inthe gift of the archdeacon, and to which the archdeacon had presentedhis father-in-law, under certain circumstances, which need not berepeated in this last chronicle of Barsetshire. Have they not beenwritten in other chronicles? "When poor papa does go, what will youdo about St. Ewold's?" said Mrs. Grantly, trembling inwardly. A wordtoo much might, as she well knew, settle the question against Mr.Crawley for ever. But were she to postpone the word till too late,the question would be settled as fatally.
"I haven't thought about it," he said sharply. "I don't like thinkingof such things while the incumbent is still living." Oh, archdeacon,archdeacon! unless that other chronicle be a false chronicle, howhast thou forgotten thyself and thy past life! "Particularly not,when that incumbent is your father," said the archdeacon. Mrs.Grantly said nothing more about St. Ewold's. She would have said asmuch as she had intended to say if she had succeeded in making thearchdeacon understand that St. Ewold's would be a very nice refugefor Mr. Crawley after all the miseries which he had endured atHogglestock.
They learned as they entered the deanery that Mrs. Baxter had alreadyheard of Mrs. Arabin's return. "O yes, ma'am. Mr. Harding got aletter hisself, and I got another,--separate; both from Venice,ma'am. But when master is to come, nobody seems to know." Mrs. Baxterknew that the dean had gone to Jerusalem, and was inclined to thinkthat from such distant bournes there was no return for any traveller.The east is always further than the west in the estimation of theMrs. Baxters of the world. Had the dean gone to Canada, she wouldhave thought that he might come back to-morrow. But still there wasthe news to be told of Mr. Crawley, and there was also joy to beexpressed at the sudden coming back of the much-wished-for mistressof the deanery.
"It's so good of you to come both together," said Mr. Harding.
"We thought we should be too many for you," said the archdeacon.
"Too many! O dear, no. I like to have people by me; and as forvoices, and noise, and all that, the more the better. But I am weak.I'm weak in my legs. I don't think I shall ever stand again."
"Yes, you will," said the archdeacon.
"We have brought you good news," said Mrs. Grantly.
"Is it not good news that Nelly will be home this week? You can'tunderstand what a joy it is to me. I used to think sometimes, atnight, that I should never see her again. That she would come backin time was all I have had to wish for." He was lying on his back,and as he spoke he pressed his withered hands together above thebedclothes. They could not begin immediately to tell him of Mr.Crawley, but as soon as his mind had turned itself away from thethoughts of his absent daughter, Mrs. Grantly again reverted to hernews.
"We have come to tell you about Mr. Crawley, papa."
"What about him?"
"He is quite innocent."
"I knew it, my dear. I always said so. Did I not always say so,archdeacon?"
"Indeed you did. I'll give you that credit."
"And is it all found out?" asked Mr. Harding.
"As far as he is concerned, everything is found out," said Mrs.Grantly. "Eleanor gave him the cheque herself."
"Nelly gave it to him?"
"Yes, papa. The dean meant her to give him fifty pounds. But it seemsshe got to be soft of heart and made it seventy. She had the chequeby her, and put it into the envelope with the notes."
"Some of Stringer's people seem to have stolen the cheque from Mr.Soames," said the archdeacon.
"O dear; I hope not."
"Somebody must have stolen it, papa."
"I had hoped not, Susan," said Mr. Harding. Both the archdeacon andMrs. Grantly knew that it was useless to argue with him on such apoint, and so they let that go.
Then they came to discuss Mr. Crawley's present position, and Mr.Harding ventured to ask a question or two as to Grace's chance ofmarriage. He did not often interfere in the family arrangements ofhis son-in-law,--and never did so when those family arrangementswere concerned with high matters. He had hardly opened his mouthin reference to the marriage of that August lady who was now theMarchioness of Hartletop. And of the Lady Anne, the wife of the Rev.Charles Grantly, who was always prodigiously civil to him, speakingto him very loud, as though he were deaf because he was old, andbringing him cheap presents from London of which he did not take muchheed,--of her he rarely said a word, or of her children, to eitherof his daughters. But now his grandson, Henry Grantly, was going tomarry a girl of whom he felt that he might speak without impropriety."I suppose it will be a match; won't it, my dears?"
"Not a doubt about it," said Mrs. Grantly. Mr. Harding looked at hisson-in-law, but his son-in-law said nothing. The archdeacon did noteven frown,--but only moved himself a little uneasily in his chair.
"Dear, dear! What a comfort that must be," said the old man.
"I have not seen her yet," said Mrs. Grantly; "but the archdeacondeclares that she is all the graces rolled into one."
"I never said anything half so absurd," replied the archdeacon.
"But he really is quite in love with her, papa," said Mrs. Grantly."He confessed to me that he gave her a kiss, and he only saw her oncefor five minutes."
"I should like to give her a kiss," said Mr. Harding.
"So you shall, papa, and I'll bring her here on purpose. As soon asever the thing is settled, we mean to ask her to Plumstead."
"Do you though? How nice! How happy Henry will be!"
"And if she comes--and of course she will--I'll lose no time inbringing her over to you. Nelly must see her of course."
As they were leaving the room Mr. Harding called the archdeacon back,and taking him by the hand, spoke one word to him in a whisper. "Idon't like to interfere," he said; "but might not Mr. Crawley haveSt. Ewold's?" The archdeacon took up the old man's hand and kissedit. Then he followed his wife out of the room, without making anyanswer to Mr. Harding's question.
Three days after this Mrs. Arabin reached the deanery, and the joy ather return was very great. "My dear, I have been sick for you," saidMr. Harding.
"Oh, papa, I ought not to have gone."
"Nay, my dear; do not say that. Would it make me happy that youshould be a prisoner here for ever? It was only when I seemed to getso weak that I thought about it. I felt that it must be near whenthey bade me not to go to the cathedral any more."
"If I had been here, I could have gone with you, papa."
"It is better as it is. I know now that I was not fit for it. Whenyour sister came to me, I never thought of remonstrating. I knew thenthat I had seen it for the last time."
"We need not say that yet, papa."
"I did think that when you came home we might crawl there togethersome warm morning. I did think of that for a time. But it will neverbe so, dear. I shall never see anything now that I do not see fromhere,--and not that for long. Do not cry, Nelly. I have nothing toregret, nothing to make me unhappy. I know how poor and weak has beenmy life; but I know how rich and strong is that other life. Do notcry, Nelly,--not till I am gone; and then not beyond measure. Whyshould any one weep for those who go away full of years,--and full ofhope?"
On the day but one following the dean also reached his home. Thefinal arrangements of his tour, as well as those of his wife, hadbeen made to depend on Mr. Crawley's trial; for he also had beenhurried back by John Eames's visit to Florence. "I should have comeat once," he said to his wife, "when they wrote to ask me whetherCrawley had taken the cheque from me, had anybody then told me thathe was in actual trouble; but I had no
idea then that they werecharging him with theft."
"As far as I can learn, they never really suspected him until afteryour answer had come. They had been quite sure that your answer wouldbe in the affirmative."
"What he must have endured it is impossible to conceive. I shall goout to him to-morrow."
"Would he not come to us?" said Mrs. Arabin.
"I doubt it. I will ask him, of course. I will ask them all here.This about Henry and the girl may make a difference. He has resignedthe living, and some of the palace people are doing the duty."
"But he can have it again?"
"Oh, yes; he can have it again. For the matter of that, I need simplygive him back his letter. Only he is so odd,--so unlike other people!And he has tried to live there, and has failed; and is now in debt. Iwonder whether Grantly would give him St. Ewold's?"
"I wish he would. But you must ask him. I should not dare."
As to the matter of the cheque, the dean acknowledged to his wife atlast that he had some recollection of her having told him that shehad made the sum of money up to seventy pounds. "I don't feel certainof it now; but I think you may have done so." "I am quite sure Icould not have done it without telling you," she replied. "At anyrate you said nothing of the cheque," pleaded the dean. "I don'tsuppose I did," said Mrs. Arabin. "I thought that cheques were likeany other money; but I shall know better for the future."
On the following morning the dean rode over to Hogglestock, and as hedrew near to the house of his old friend, his spirits flagged,--forto tell the truth, he dreaded the meeting. Since the day on which hehad brought Mr. Crawley from a curacy in Cornwall into the diocese ofBarchester, his friend had been a trouble to him rather than a joy.The trouble had been a trouble of spirit altogether,--not at all ofpocket. He would willingly have picked the Crawleys out from thepecuniary mud into which they were ever falling, time after time,had it been possible. For, though the dean was hardly to be called arich man, his lines had fallen to him not only in pleasant places,but in easy circumstances;--and Mr. Crawley's embarrassments, thoughoverwhelming to him, were not so great as to have been heavy tothe dean. But in striving to do this he had always failed, hadalways suffered, and had generally been rebuked. Crawley wouldattempt to argue with him as to the improper allotment of Churchendowments,--declaring that he did not do so with any referenceto his own circumstances, but simply because the subject was onenaturally interesting to clergymen. And this he would do, as he waswaving off with his hand offers of immediate assistance which wereindispensable. Then there had been scenes between the dean and Mrs.Crawley,--terribly painful,--and which had taken place in directdisobedience to the husband's positive injunctions. "Sir," he hadonce said to the dean, "I request that nothing may pass from yourhands to the hands of my wife." "Tush, tush," the dean had answered."I will have no tushing or pshawing on such a matter. A man's wife ishis very own, the breath of his nostril, the blood of his heart, therib from his body. It is for me to rule my wife, and I tell you thatI will not have it." After that the gifts had come from the hands ofMrs. Arabin;--and then again, after that, in the direst hour of hisneed, Crawley had himself come and taken money from the dean's hands!The interview had been so painful that Arabin would hardly have beenable to count the money or to know of what it had consisted, had hetaken the notes and cheque out of the envelope in which his wife hadput them. Since that day the two had not met each other, and sincethat day these new troubles had come. Arabin as yet knew but littleof the manner in which they had been borne, except that Crawley hadfelt himself compelled to resign the living of Hogglestock. He knewnothing of Mrs. Proudie's persecution, except what he gathered fromthe fact of the clerical commission of which he had been informed;but he could imagine that Mrs. Proudie would not lie easy on herbed while a clergyman was doing duty almost under her nose, who wasguilty of the double offence of being accused of a theft, and ofhaving been put into his living by the dean. The dean, therefore,as he rode on, pictured to himself his old friend in a terriblecondition. And it might be that even now that condition would hardlyhave been improved. He was no longer suspected of being a thief; buthe could have no money in his pocket; and it might well be that hissufferings would have made him almost mad.
The dean also got down and left his horse at a farm-yard,--as Grantlyhad done with his carriage; and walked on first to the school. Heheard voices inside, but could not distinguish from them whether Mr.Crawley was there or not. Slowly he opened the door, and lookinground saw that Jane Crawley was in the ascendant. Jane did not knowhim at once, but told him when he had introduced himself that herfather had gone down to Hoggle End. He had started two hours ago, butit was impossible to say when he might be back. "He sometimes staysall day long with the brickmakers," said Jane. Her mother was athome, and she would take the dean into the house. As she said thisshe told him that her father was sometimes better and sometimesworse. "But he has never been so very, very bad, since Henry Grantlyand mamma's cousin came and told us about the cheque." That wordHenry Grantly made the dean understand that there might yet be a rayof sunshine among the Crawleys.
"There is papa," said Jane, as they got to the gate. Then they waitedfor a few minutes till Mr. Crawley came up, very hot, wiping thesweat from his forehead.
"Crawley," said the dean, "I cannot tell you how glad I am to seeyou, and how rejoiced I am that this accusation has fallen off fromyou."
"Verily the news came in time, Arabin," said the other; "but it was anarrow pinch--a narrow pinch. Will you not enter, and see my wife?"