The Last Chronicle of Barset Part 33

said the old man in a plaintive tone. Now Eleanor was Mrs. Arabin, the dean's wife, and was at this time,--if I were to say over forty I do not think I should be uncharitable. No one else saw the special likeness, but no one else remembered, as Mr. Harding did, what Eleanor had been when she was three years old.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "She's more like Eleanor than any one else."]

"Aunt Nelly is in France," said the child.

"Yes, my darling, aunt Nelly is in France, and I wish she were at home. Aunt Nelly has been away a long time."

"I suppose she'll stay till the dean picks her up on his way home?"

said Mrs. Grantly.

"So she says in her letters. I heard from her yesterday, and I brought the letter, as I thought you'd like to see it." Mrs. Grantly took the letter and read it, while her father still played with the child. The archdeacon and the major were standing together on the rug discussing the shooting at Chaldicotes, as to which the archdeacon had a strong opinion. "I'm quite sure that a man with a place like that does more good by preserving than by leaving it alone. The better head of game he has the richer the county will be generally.

It is just the same with pheasants as it is with sheep and bullocks.

A pheasant doesn't cost more than he's worth any more than a barn-door fowl. Besides, a man who preserves is always respected by the poachers, and the man who doesn't is not."

"There's something in that, sir, certainly," said the major.

"More than you think for, perhaps. Look at poor Sowerby, who went on there for years without a s.h.i.+lling. How he was respected, because he lived as the people around him expected a gentleman to live. Thorne will have a bad time of it, if he tries to change things."

"Only think," exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, "when Eleanor wrote she had not heard of that affair of poor Mr. Crawley's."

"Does she say anything about him?" asked the major.

"I'll read what she says. 'I see in Galignani that a clergyman in Ba.r.s.ets.h.i.+re has been committed for theft. Pray tell me who it is. Not the bishop, I hope, for the credit of the diocese?'"

"I wish it were," said the archdeacon.

"For shame, my dear," said his wife.

"No shame at all. If we are to have a thief among us, I'd sooner find him in a bad man than a good one. Besides we should have a change at the palace, which would be a great thing."

"But is it not odd that Eleanor should have heard nothing of it?"

said Mrs. Grantly.

"It's odd that you should not have mentioned it yourself."

"I did not, certainly; nor you, papa, I suppose?"

Mr. Harding acknowledged that he had not spoken of it, and then they calculated that perhaps she might not have received any letter from her husband written since the news had reached him. "Besides, why should he have mentioned it?" said the major. "He only knows as yet of the inquiry about the cheque, and can have heard nothing of what was done by the magistrates."

"Still it seems so odd that Eleanor should not have known of it, seeing that we have been talking of nothing else for the last week,"

said Mrs. Grantly.

For two days the major said not a word of Grace Crawley to any one.

Nothing could be more courteous and complaisant than was his father's conduct to him. Anything that he wanted for Edith was to be done. For himself there was no trouble which would not be taken. His hunting, and his shooting, and his fis.h.i.+ng seemed to have become matters of paramount consideration to his father. And then the archdeacon became very confidential about money matters,--not offering anything to his son, which, as he well knew, would have been seen through as palpable bribery and corruption,--but telling him of this little scheme and of that, of one investment and of another;--how he contemplated buying a small property here, and spending a few thousands on building there.

"Of course it is all for you and your brother," said the archdeacon, with that benevolent sadness which is used habitually by fathers on such occasions; "and I like you to know what it is that I am doing.

I told Charles about the London property the last time I was up,"

said the archdeacon, "and there shall be no difference between him and you, if all goes well." This was very good-natured on the archdeacon's part, and was not strictly necessary, as Charles was the eldest son; but the major understood it perfectly. "There shall be an elysium opened to you, if only you will not do that terrible thing of which you spoke when last here." The archdeacon uttered no such words as these, and did not even allude to Grace Crawley; but the words were as good as spoken, and had they been spoken ever so plainly the major could not have understood them more clearly. He was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium opened before him. He had had his moment of anxiety, whether his father would or would not make an elder son of his brother Charles. The whole thing was now put before him plainly. Give up Grace Crawley, and you shall share alike with your brother. Disgrace yourself by marrying her, and your brother shall have everything. There was the choice, and it was still open to him to take which side he pleased. Were he never to go near Grace Crawley again no one would blame him, unless it were Miss Prettyman or Mrs. Thorne. "Fill your gla.s.s, Henry," said the archdeacon. "You'd better, I tell you, for there is no more of it left." Then the major filled his gla.s.s and sipped the wine, and swore to himself that he would go down to Allington at once. What! Did his father think to bribe him by giving him '20 port? He would certainly go down to Allington, and he would tell his mother to-morrow morning, or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do. "Pity it should be all gone; isn't it, sir?" said the archdeacon to his father-in-law. "It has lasted my time," said Mr. Harding, "and I'm very much obliged to it. Dear, dear; how well I remember your father giving the order for it! There were two pipes, and somebody said it was a heady wine. 'If the prebendaries and rectors can't drink it,'

said your father, 'the curates will.'"

"Curates indeed!" said the archdeacon. "It's too good for a bishop, unless one of the right sort."

"Your father used to say those things, but with him the poorer the guest the better the cheer. When he had a few clergymen round him, how he loved to make them happy!"

"Never talked shop to them,--did he?" said the archdeacon.

"Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious, when one thinks of it! Do you remember how we used to play cards?"

"Every night regularly;--threepenny points, and sixpence on the rubber," said the archdeacon.

"Dear, dear! How things are changed! And I remember when the clergymen did more of the dancing in Barchester than all the other young men in the city put together."

"And a good set they were;--gentlemen every one of them. It's well that some of them don't dance now;--that is, for the girls' sake."

"I sometimes sit and wonder," said Mr. Harding, "whether your father's spirit ever comes back to the old house and sees the changes,--and if so whether he approves them."

"Approves them!" said the archdeacon.

"Well;--yes. I think he would, upon the whole. I'm sure of this: he would not disapprove, because the new ways are changed from his ways.

He never thought himself infallible. And do you know, my dear, I am not sure that it isn't all for the best. I sometimes think that some of us were very idle when we were young. I was, I know."

"I worked hard enough," said the archdeacon.

"Ah, yes; you. But most of us took it very easily. Dear, dear! When I think of it, and see how hard they work now, and remember what pleasant times we used to have,--I don't feel sometimes quite sure."

"I believe the work was done a great deal better than it is now,"

said the archdeacon. "There wasn't so much fuss, but there was more reality. And men were men, and clergymen were gentlemen."

"Yes;--they were gentlemen."

"Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn't have held his head up among us. That's what has come from Reform. A reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and then your Prime Minister makes Dr. Proudie a bishop! Well;--it will last my time, I suppose."

"It has lasted mine,--like the wine," said Mr. Harding.

"There's one gla.s.s more, and you shall have it, sir." Then Mr.

Harding drank the last gla.s.s of the 1820 port, and they went into the drawing-room.

On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walk by himself. His father had suggested to him that he should go over to shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of everything the archdeaconry possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns and carriages. But the major would have none of these things. He would go out and walk by himself. "He's not thinking of her; is he?" said the archdeacon to his wife, in a whisper. "I don't know. I think he is,"

said Mrs. Grantly. "It will be so much the better for Charles, if he does," said the archdeacon grimly; and the look of his face as he spoke was by no means pleasant. "You will do nothing unjust, archdeacon," said his wife. "I will do as I like with my own," said he. And then he also went out and took a walk by himself.

That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollections of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as they sat together,--and dulness is always more unendurable than sadness. Old Mr. Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross.

"Henry," he said, "you haven't a word to throw to a dog." "I've got rather a headache this evening, sir," said the major. The archdeacon drank two gla.s.ses of wine, one after another, quickly. Then he woke his father-in-law gently, and went off. "Is there anything the matter?" asked the old man. "Nothing particular. My father seems to be a little cross." "Ah! I've been to sleep and I oughtn't. It's my fault. We'll go in and smooth him down." But the archdeacon wouldn't be smoothed down on that occasion. He would let his son see the difference between a father pleased, and a father displeased,--or rather between a father pleasant, and a father unpleasant. "He hasn't said anything to you, has he?" said the archdeacon that night to his wife. "Not a word;--as yet." "If he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall think him a cur," said the archdeacon. "But he did tell you," said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite son; "and, for the matter of that, he has courage enough for anything. If he does it, I shall always say that he has been driven to it by your threats."

"That's sheer nonsense," said the archdeacon.

"It's not nonsense at all," said Mrs. Grantly.

"Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing?" said the archdeacon; and as he spoke he banged the door between his dressing-room and Mrs. Grantly's bedroom.

On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind to his mother. The archdeacon had gone into Barchester, having in vain attempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding was in the library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming of old days and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine.