CHAPTER III.
THE ARCHDEACON'S THREAT.
The dinner-party at the rectory comprised none but the Grantlyfamily. The marchioness had written to say that she preferred to haveit so. The father had suggested that the Thornes of Ullathorne, veryold friends, might be asked, and the Greshams from Boxall Hill, andhad even promised to endeavour to get old Lady Lufton over to therectory, Lady Lufton having in former years been Griselda's warmfriend. But Lady Hartletop had preferred to see her dear fatherand mother in privacy. Her brother Henry she would be glad to meet,and hoped to make some arrangement with him for a short visit toHartlebury, her husband's place in Shropshire,--as to which latterhint, it may, however, be at once said, that nothing further wasspoken after the Crawley alliance had been suggested. And there hadbeen a very sore point mooted by the daughter in a request madeby her to her father that she might not be called upon to meether grandfather, her mother's father, Mr. Harding, a clergyman ofBarchester, who was now stricken in years.--"Papa would not havecome," said Mrs. Grantly, "but I think,--I do think--" Then shestopped herself.
"Your father has odd ways sometimes, my dear. You know how fond I amof having him here myself."
"It does not signify," said Mrs. Grantly. "Do not let us say anythingmore about it. Of course we cannot have everything. I am told thechild does her duty in her sphere of life, and I suppose we ought tobe contented." Then Mrs. Grantly went up to her own room, and thereshe cried. Nothing was said to the major on the unpleasant subjectof the Crawleys before dinner. He met his sister in the drawing-room,and was allowed to kiss her noble cheek. "I hope Edith is well,Henry," said the sister. "Quite well; and little Dumbello is thesame, I hope?" "Thank you, yes; quite well." Then there seemed tobe nothing more to be said between the two. The major never madeinquiries after the august family, or would allow it to appear thathe was conscious of being shone upon by the wife of a marquis. Anyadulation which Griselda received of that kind came from her father,and, therefore, unconsciously she had learned to think that herfather was better bred than the other members of her family, and morefitted by nature to move in that sacred circle to which she herselfhad been exalted. We need not dwell upon the dinner, which was but adull affair. Mrs. Grantly strove to carry on the family party exactlyas it would have been carried on had her daughter married the sonof some neighbouring squire; but she herself was conscious of thestruggle, and the fact of there being a struggle produced failure.The rector's servants treated the daughter of the house with specialawe, and the marchioness herself moved, and spoke, and ate, and drankwith a cold magnificence, which I think had become a second naturewith her, but which was not on that account the less oppressive.Even the archdeacon, who enjoyed something in that which was sodisagreeable to his wife, felt a relief when he was left alone afterdinner with his son. He felt relieved as his son got up to open thedoor for his mother and sister, but was aware at the same time thathe had before him a most difficult and possibly a most disastroustask. His dear son Henry was not a man to be talked smoothly out of,or into, any propriety. He had a will of his own, and having hithertobeen a successful man, who in youth had fallen into few youthfultroubles,--who had never justified his father in using stern parentalauthority,--was not now inclined to bend his neck. "Henry," said thearchdeacon, "what are you drinking? That's '34 port, but it's notjust what it should be. Shall I send for another bottle?"
"It will do for me, sir. I shall only take a glass."
"I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you young fellowshave become so desperately temperate."
"We take our wine at dinner, sir."
"By-the-by, how well Griselda is looking."
"Yes, she is. It's always easy for women to look well when they'rerich." How would Grace Crawley look, then, who was poor as povertyitself, and who should remain poor, if his son was fool enough tomarry her? That was the train of thought which ran through thearchdeacon's mind. "I do not think much of riches," said he, "butit is always well that a gentleman's wife or a gentleman's daughtershould have a sufficiency to maintain her position in life."
"You may say the same, sir, of everybody's wife and everybody'sdaughter."
"You know what I mean, Henry."
"I am not quite sure that I do, sir."
"Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A rumour has reached yourmother and me, which we don't believe for a moment, but which,nevertheless, makes us unhappy even as a report. They say that thereis a young woman living in Silverbridge to whom you are becomingattached."
"Is there any reason why I should not become attached to a youngwoman in Silverbridge?--though I hope any young woman to whom I maybecome attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a younglady."
"I hope so, Henry; I hope so. I do hope so."
"So much I will promise, sir; but I will promise nothing more."
The archdeacon looked across into his son's face, and his heart sankwithin him. His son's voice and his son's eyes seemed to tell him twothings. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about GraceCrawley was true; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not tobe talked out of his folly. "But you are not engaged to any one, areyou?" said the archdeacon. The son did not at first make any answer,and then the father repeated the question. "Considering our mutualpositions, Henry, I think you ought to tell me if you are engaged."
"I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the firstopportunity of telling either you or my mother."
"Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more plainly. The youngwoman whose name I have heard is daughter to that Mr. Crawley who isperpetual curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there could be nothingin it."
"But there is something in it, sir."
"What is there in it? Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. What is ityou mean?"
"It is rather hard to be cross-questioned in this way on such asubject. When you express yourself as thankful that there is nothingin the rumour, I am forced to stop you, as otherwise it is possiblethat hereafter you may say that I have deceived you."
"But you don't mean to marry her?"
"I certainly do not mean to pledge myself not to do so."
"Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you are in love with MissCrawley?" Then there was another pause, during which the archdeaconsat looking for an answer; but the major said never a word. "Am I tosuppose that you intend to lower yourself by marrying a young womanwho cannot possibly have enjoyed any of the advantages of a lady'seducation? I say nothing of the imprudence of the thing; nothing ofher own want of fortune; nothing of your having to maintain a wholefamily steeped in poverty; nothing of the debts and character of thefather, upon whom, as I understand, at this moment there rests a verygrave suspicion of--of--of--what I'm afraid I must call downrighttheft."
"Downright theft, certainly, if he were guilty."
"I say nothing of all that; but looking at the young woman herself--"
"She is simply the best educated girl whom it has ever been my lot tomeet."
"Henry, I have a right to expect that you will be honest with me."
"I am honest with you."
"Do you mean to ask this girl to marry you?"
"I do not think that you have any right to ask me that question,sir."
"I have a right at any rate to tell you this, that if you so fardisgrace yourself and me, I shall consider myself bound to withdrawfrom you all the sanction which would be conveyed by my--my--mycontinued assistance."
"Do you intend me to understand that you will stop my income?"
"Certainly I should."
"Then, sir, I think you would behave to me most cruelly. You advisedme to give up my profession."
"Not in order that you might marry Grace Crawley."
"I claim the privilege of a man of my age to do as I please insuch a matter as marriage. Miss Crawley is a lady. Her father is aclergyman, as is mine. Her father's oldest friend is my uncle. Thereis nothing on earth against her except her poverty. I do not think Iever heard of such
cruelty on a father's part."
"Very well, Henry."
"I have endeavoured to do my duty by you, sir, always; and by mymother. You can treat me in this way, if you please, but it will nothave any effect on my conduct. You can stop my allowance to-morrow,if you like it. I had not as yet made up my mind to make an offer toMiss Crawley, but I shall now do so to-morrow morning."
This was very bad indeed, and the archdeacon was extremely unhappy.He was by no means at heart a cruel man. He loved his childrendearly. If this disagreeable marriage were to take place, he woulddoubtless do exactly as his wife had predicted. He would not stop hisson's income for a single quarter; and, though he went on tellinghimself that he would stop it, he knew in his own heart that anysuch severity was beyond his power. He was a generous man in moneymatters,--having a dislike for poverty which was not generous,--andfor his own sake could not have endured to see a son of his in want.But he was terribly anxious to exercise the power which the use ofthe threat might give him. "Henry," he said, "you are treating mebadly, very badly. My anxiety has always been for the welfare ofmy children. Do you think that Miss Crawley would be a fittingsister-in-law for that dear girl upstairs?"
"Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the world; exceptingthat Griselda, who is not clever, would hardly be able to appreciateMiss Crawley, who is clever."
"Griselda not clever! Good heavens!" Then there was another pause,and as the major said nothing, the father continued his entreaties."Pray, pray think of what my wishes are, and your mother's. You arenot committed as yet. Pray think of us while there is time. I wouldrather double your income if I saw you marry any one that we couldname here."
"I have enough as it is, if I may only be allowed to know that itwill not be capriciously withdrawn." The archdeacon filled his glassunconsciously, and sipped his wine, while he thought what furtherhe might say. Perhaps it might be better that he should say nothingfurther at the present moment. The major, however, was indiscreet,and pushed the question. "May I understand, sir, that your threat iswithdrawn, and that my income is secure?"
"What, if you marry this girl?"
"Yes, sir; will my income be continued to me if I marry MissCrawley?"
"No, it will not." Then the father got up hastily, pushed thedecanter back angrily from his hand, and without saying another wordwalked away into the drawing-room. That evening at the rectory wasvery gloomy. The archdeacon now and again said a word or two to hisdaughter, and his daughter answered him in monosyllables. The majorsat apart moodily, and spoke to no one. Mrs. Grantly, understandingwell what had passed, knew that nothing could be done at the presentmoment to restore family comfort; so she sat by the fire and knitted.Exactly at ten they all went to bed.
"Dear Henry," said the mother to her son the next morning; "thinkmuch of yourself, and of your child, and of us, before you take anygreat step in life."
"I will, mother," said he. Then he went out and put on his wrapper,and got into his dog-cart, and drove himself off to Silverbridge. Hehad not spoken to his father since they were in the dining-room onthe previous evening. When he started, the marchioness had not yetcome downstairs; but at eleven she breakfasted, and at twelve shealso was taken away. Poor Mrs. Grantly had not had much comfort fromher children's visits.