The Last Chronicle of Barset

CHAPTER XXXI

SHOW­ING HOW MA­JOR GRANT­LY RE­TURNED TO GUEST­WICK

Grace, when she was left alone, threw her­self up­on the so­fa, and hid her face in her hands. She was weep­ing al­most hys­ter­ical­ly, and had been ut­ter­ly dis­mayed and fright­ened by her lover’s im­petu­os­ity. Things had gone af­ter a fash­ion which her imag­ina­tion had not paint­ed to her as pos­si­ble. Sure­ly she had the pow­er to refuse the man if she pleased. And yet she felt as she lay there weep­ing that she did in truth be­long to him as part of his goods, and that her gen­eros­ity had been foiled. She had es­pe­cial­ly re­solved that she would not con­fess any love to him. She had made no such con­fes­sion. She had guard­ed her­self against do­ing so with all the care which she knew how to use. But he as­sumed the fact, and she had been un­able to de­ny it. Could she have lied to him, and sworn that she did not love him? Could she have so per­jured her­self, even in sup­port of her gen­eros­ity? Yes, she would have done so–so she told her­self–if a mo­ment had been giv­en to her for thought. She ought to have done so, and she blamed her­self for be­ing so lit­tle pre­pared for the oc­ca­sion. The lie would be use­less now. In­deed, she would have no op­por­tu­ni­ty for telling it; for of course she would not an­swer–would not even read his let­ter. Though he might know that she loved him, yet she would not be his wife. He had forced her se­cret from her, but he could not force her to mar­ry him. She did love him, but he should nev­er be dis­graced by her love.

Af­ter a while she was able to think of his con­duct, and she be­lieved that she ought to be very an­gry with him. He had tak­en her rough­ly in his arms, and had in­sult­ed her. He had forced a kiss from her. She had felt his arms warm and close and strong about her, and had not known whether she was in par­adise or in pur­ga­to­ry. She was very an­gry with him. She would send back his let­ter to him with­out read­ing it–with­out open­ing it, if that might be pos­si­ble. He had done that to her which noth­ing could jus­ti­fy. But yet–yet–yet how dear­ly she loved him! Was he not the prince of men? He had be­haved bad­ly, of course; but had any man ev­er be­haved so bad­ly be­fore in so di­vine a way? Was it not a thou­sand pities that she should be driv­en to de­ny any­thing to a lover who so rich­ly de­served ev­ery­thing that could be giv­en to him? He had kissed her hand as he let her go, and now, not know­ing what she did, she kissed the spot on which she had felt his lips. His arm had been round her waist, and the old frock which she wore should be kept by her for ev­er, be­cause it had been so graced.

What was she now to say to Lily and Lily’s moth­er? Of one thing there was no doubt. She would nev­er tell them of her lover’s wicked au­dac­ity. That was a se­cret nev­er to be im­part­ed to any ears. She would keep her re­sent­ment to her­self, and not ask the pro­tec­tion of any vi­car­ious wrath. He could nev­er so sin again, that was cer­tain; and she would keep all her knowl­edge and mem­ory of the sin for her own pur­pos­es. But how could it be that such a man as that, one so good though so sin­ful, so glo­ri­ous though so great a tres­pass­er, should have come to such a girl as her and have asked for her love? Then she thought of her fa­ther’s pover­ty and the mis­ery of her own con­di­tion, and de­clared to her­self that it was very won­der­ful.

Lily was the first to en­ter the room, and she, be­fore she did so, learned from the ser­vant that Ma­jor Grant­ly had left the house. ‘I heard the door, miss, and then I saw the top of his hat out of the pantry win­dow.’ Armed with this cer­tain in­for­ma­tion, Lily en­tered the draw­ing-​room, and found Grace in the act of ris­ing from the so­fa.

‘Am I dis­turb­ing you,’ said Lily.

‘No; not at all. I am glad you have come. Kiss me, and be good to me.’ And she twined her arms about Lily and em­braced her.

‘Am I not al­ways good to you, you sim­ple­ton? Has he been good?’

‘I don’t know what you mean?’

‘And have you been good to him?’

‘As good as I knew how, Lily.’

‘And where is he?’

‘He has gone away. I shall nev­er see him any more, Lily.’

Then she hid her face up­on her friend’s shoul­der and broke forth again in­to hys­ter­ical tears.

‘But tell me, Grace, what he said;–that is, if you mean to tell me!’

‘I will tell you ev­ery­thing;–that is, ev­ery­thing I can.’ And Grace blushed as she thought of the one se­cret which she cer­tain­ly would not tell.

‘Has he–has he done what I said he would do? Come, speak out bold­ly. Has he asked you to be his wife?’

‘Yes,’ said Grace, bare­ly whis­per­ing the word.

‘And you have ac­cept­ed him?’

‘No, Lily, I have not. In­deed, I have not. I did not know how to speak, be­cause I was sur­prised;–and he, of course, could say what he liked. But I told him as well as I could, that I would not mar­ry him.’

‘And why;–did you tell him why?’

‘Yes; be­cause of pa­pa!’

‘Then, if he is the man I take him to be, that an­swer will go for noth­ing. Of course he knew all that be­fore he came here. He did not think you were an heiress with forty thou­sand pounds. If he is in earnest, that will go for noth­ing. And I think he is in earnest.’

‘And so was I in earnest.’

‘Well, Grace;–we shall see.’

‘I sup­pose I may have a will of my own, Lily.’

‘Do not be sure of that. Wom­en are not al­lowed to have wills of their own on all oc­ca­sions. Some man comes in a girl’s way, and she gets to be fond of him, just be­cause he does come in her way. Well; when that has tak­en place, she has no al­ter­na­tive but to be tak­en if he choos­es to take her; or to be left, if he choos­es to leave her.’

‘Lily, don’t say that.’

‘But I do say it. A man may as­sure him­self that he will find for him­self a wife who shall be learned, or beau­ti­ful, or six feet high, if he wish­es it, or who has red hair, or red eyes, or red cheeks–just what he pleas­es; and he may go about till he finds it, as you can go about and match your worsteds. You are a fool if you buy a colour you don’t want. But we can nev­er match our worsteds for that oth­er piece of work, but are obliged to take any colour that comes–and, there­fore, it is that we make such a jum­ble of it! Here’s mam­ma. We must not be philo­soph­ical be­fore her. Mam­ma, Ma­jor Grant­ly has–skedad­dled.’

‘Oh, Lily, what a word!’

‘But, oh, mam­ma, what a thing! Fan­cy his go­ing away and not say­ing a word to any­body!’

‘If he had any­thing to say to Grace, I sup­pose he said it.’

‘He asked her to mar­ry him, of course. We none of us had any doubt about that. He swore to her that she and none but she should be his wife–and all that kind of thing. But he seems to have done it in the most pro­sa­ic way;–and now he has gone away with­out say­ing a word to any of us. I shall nev­er speak to him again–un­less Grace asks me.’

‘Grace, my dear, may I con­grat­ulate you?’ said Mrs Dale.

Grace did not an­swer, as Lily was too quick for her. ‘Oh, she has re­fused him, of course. But, Ma­jor Grant­ly is a man of too much sense to ex­pect that he should suc­ceed the first time. Let me see; this is the four­teenth. These clocks run four­teen days, and there­fore, you may ex­pect him again about the twen­ty-​eighth. For my­self, I think you are giv­ing him an im­mense deal of un­nec­es­sary trou­ble, and that if he left you in the lurch it would on­ly serve you right; but you have the world with you, I’m told. A girl is sup­posed to tell a man two fibs be­fore she may tell him one truth.’

‘I told him no fib, Lily. I told him that I would not mar­ry him and I will not.’

‘But why not, dear Grace?’ said Mrs Dale.

‘Be­cause the peo­ple say that pa­pa is a thief!’ Hav­ing said this, Grace walked slow­ly out of the room, and nei­ther Mrs Dale nor Lily at­tempt­ed to fol­low her.

‘She’s as good as gold,’ said Lily, when the door was closed.

‘And he;–what of him?’

‘I think he is good too; but she has told me noth­ing yet of what he has said to her. He must be good, or he would not have come down here af­ter her. But I don’t won­der at his com­ing, be­cause she is so beau­ti­ful! Once or twice as we were walk­ing back to­day, I thought her face was the most love­ly that I had ev­er seen. And did you see her just now, as she spoke of her fa­ther?’

‘Oh, yes;–I saw her.’

‘Think what she will be in two or three years’ time, when she be­comes a wom­an. She talks French, and Ital­ian, and He­brew for any­thing that I know; and she is per­fect­ly beau­ti­ful. I nev­er saw a more love­ly fig­ure;–and she has spir­it enough for a god­dess. I don’t think that Ma­jor Grant­ly is such a fool af­ter all.’

‘I nev­er took him for a fool.’

‘I have no doubt all his own peo­ple do;–or they will, when they hear of it. But, mam­ma, she will grow to be big enough to walk atop all the La­dy Hartle­tops in Eng­land. It will all come right at last.’

‘You think it will?’

‘Oh, yes. Why should it not? If he is worth hav­ing, it will;–and I think he is worth hav­ing. He must wait till this hor­rid tri­al is over. It is clear to me that Grace thinks her fa­ther will be con­vict­ed.’

‘But he can­not have tak­en the mon­ey.’

‘I think he took it, and I think it wasn’t his. But I don’t think he stole it. I don’t know whether you can un­der­stand the dif­fer­ence.’

‘I am afraid a ju­ry won’t un­der­stand it.’

‘A ju­ry of men will not. I wish they could put you and me on it, mam­ma. I would take my best boots and eat them down to the heels, for Grace’s sake, and for Ma­jor Grant­ly’s. What a good-​look­ing man he is!’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘And so like a gen­tle­man! I’ll tell you what, mam­ma; we won’t say any­thing to her about him for the present. Her heart will be so full she will be driv­en to talk, and we can com­fort her bet­ter in that way.’ The moth­er and daugh­ter agreed to act up­on these tac­tics and noth­ing more was said to Grace about her lover on that evening.

Ma­jor Grant­ly walked from Mrs Dale’s house to the inn and or­dered his gig, and drove him­self out of Alling­ton, al­most with­out re­mem­ber­ing where he was or whith­er he was go­ing. He was think­ing sole­ly of what had just oc­curred, and of what, on his part, should fol­low as the re­sult of that meet­ing. Half at least of the no­ble deeds done in this world are due to em­ula­tion, rather than to the na­tive no­bil­ity of the ac­tors. A young man leads a for­lorn hope be­cause an­oth­er young man has of­fered to do so. Jones in the hunt­ing-​field rides at an im­prac­ti­ca­ble fence be­cause he is told Smith took it three years ago. And Walk­er puts his name down for ten guineas at a char­ita­ble din­ner when he hears Thomp­son’s read out for five. And in this case the gen­eros­ity and self-​de­nial shown by Grace warmed and cher­ished sim­ilar virtues with­in her lover’s breast. Some few weeks ago Ma­jor Grant­ly had been in doubt as to what his du­ty re­quired of him in ref­er­ence to Grace Craw­ley; but he had no doubt what­so­ev­er now. In the fer­vour of his ad­mi­ra­tion he would have gone straight to the archdea­con, had it been pos­si­ble, and have told him what he had done and what he in­tend­ed to do. Noth­ing now should stop him;–no con­sid­er­ation, that is, ei­ther as re­gard­ed mon­ey or po­si­tion. He had pledged him­self solemn­ly, and he was very glad that he had pledged him­self. He would write to Grace and ex­plain to her that he trust­ed al­to­geth­er in her fa­ther’s hon­our and in­no­cence, but that no con­sid­er­ation as to that ought to in­flu­ence ei­ther him or her in any way. If, in­de­pen­dent­ly of her fa­ther, she could bring her­self to come to him and be his wife, she was bound to do so now, let the po­si­tion of her fa­ther be what it might. And thus, as he drove his gig back to­wards Guest­wick, he com­posed a very pret­ty let­ter to the la­dy of his love.

And as he went, at the cor­ner of the lane which led from the main road up to Guest­wick cot­tage, he again came up­on John Eames, who was al­so re­turn­ing to Guest­wick. There had been a few words spo­ken be­tween La­dy Ju­lia and John­ny re­spect­ing Ma­jor Grant­ly af­ter the girls had left the cot­tage, and John­ny had been per­suad­ed that the strange vis­itor to Alling­ton could have no con­nex­ion with his arch-​en­emy. ‘And why has he gone to Alling­ton,’ John de­mand­ed, some­what stern­ly, of his host­ess.

‘Well; if you ask me, I think he has gone there to see your cousin, Grace Craw­ley.’

‘He told me that he knew Grace,’ said John, look­ing as though he were con­scious of his own in­ge­nu­ity in putting two and two to­geth­er very clev­er­ly.

‘Your cousin Grace is a very pret­ty girl,’ said La­dy Ju­lia.

‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen her,’ said John­ny.

‘Why, you saw her just this last minute,’ said La­dy Ju­lia.

‘I didn’t look at her,’ said John­ny. There­fore, when he again met Ma­jor Grant­ly, hav­ing con­tin­ued to put two and two to­geth­er with great in­ge­nu­ity, he felt quite sure that the man had noth­ing to do with the arch-​en­emy, and he de­ter­mined to be gra­cious. ‘Did you find them at home at Alling­ton,’ he said, rais­ing his hat.

‘How do you do again?’ said the ma­jor. ‘Yes, I found your friend Mrs Dale at home.’

‘But not her daugh­ter, or my cousin? They were up there;–where I’ve come from. But, per­haps, they had got back be­fore you left.’

‘I saw them both. They found me on the road with Mr Dale.’

‘What–the squire? Then you have seen ev­ery­body.’

‘Ev­ery­body I wished to see at Alling­ton.’

‘But you wouldn’t stay at the “Red Li­on”?’

‘Well, no. I re­mem­bered that I want­ed to get back to Lon­don; and as I had seen my friends, I thought I might as well hur­ry away.’

‘You knew Mrs Dale be­fore, then?’

‘No, I didn’t. I nev­er saw her in my life be­fore. But I knew the old squire when I was a boy. How­ev­er, I should have said friend. I went to see one friend, and I saw her.’

John Eames per­ceived that his com­pan­ion put a strong em­pha­sis on the word ‘her’, as though he were de­ter­mined to de­clare bold­ly that he had gone to Alling­ton sole­ly to see Grace Craw­ley. He had not the slight­est ob­jec­tion to recog­nis­ing in Ma­jor Grant­ly a suit­or for his cousin’s hand. He could on­ly re­flect what an un­usu­al­ly for­tu­nate girl Grace must be if such a thing could be true. Of those poor Craw­leys he had on­ly heard from time to time that their mis­for­tunes were as nu­mer­ous as the sands on the sea-​shore, and as un­sus­cep­ti­ble of any fixed and per­ma­nent ar­range­ment. But, as re­gard­ed Grace, there would be a very per­ma­nent ar­range­ment. Tid­ings had reached him that Grace was a great schol­ar, but he had nev­er heard much of her beau­ty. It must prob­ably be the case that Ma­jor Grant­ly was fond of Greek. There was, he re­mind­ed him­self, no ac­count­ing for tastes; but as noth­ing could be more re­spectable than such an al­liance, he thought that it would be­come him to be civ­il to the ma­jor.

‘I hope you found her quite well. I had bare­ly time to speak to her my­self.’

‘Yes, she was very well. This is a sad thing about her fa­ther.’

‘Very sad,’ said John­ny. Per­haps the ma­jor had heard about the ac­cu­sa­tion for the first time to­day, and was go­ing to find an es­cape on that plea. If such was the case, it would not be so well to be par­tic­ular­ly civ­il.

‘I be­lieve Mr Craw­ley is a cousin of yours?’ said the ma­jor.

‘His wife is my moth­er’s first-​cousin. Their moth­ers were sis­ters.’

‘She is an ex­cel­lent wom­an.’

‘I be­lieve so. I don’t know much about them my­self–that is, per­son­al­ly. Of course I have heard of this charge that has been made against him. It seems to me to be a great shame.’

‘Well, I can’t ex­act­ly say that it is a shame. I do not know that there has been any­thing done with a feel­ing of per­se­cu­tion or of cru­el­ty. It is a great mys­tery, and we must have it cleared up if we can.’

‘I don’t sup­pose he can have been guilty,’ said John.

‘Cer­tain­ly not in the or­di­nary sense of the word. I heard all the ev­idence against him.’

‘Oh, you did?’

‘Yes,’ said the ma­jor. ‘I live near them in Barset­shire, and I am one of his bails­men.’

‘Then you are an old friend, I sup­pose?’

‘Not ex­act­ly that; but cir­cum­stances made me very much in­ter­est­ed about them. I fan­cy that the cheque was left in his house by ac­ci­dent, and that it got in­to his hands he didn’t know how, and that when he used it he thought it was his.’

‘That’s queer,’ said John­ny.

‘He is very odd, you know.’

‘But it’s a kind of odd­ity that they don’t like at as­sizes.’

‘The great cru­el­ty is,’ said the ma­jor, ‘that what­ev­er may be the re­sult, the pun­ish­ment will fall so heav­ily up­on his wife and daugh­ters. I think the whole coun­ty ought to come for­ward and take them by the hand. Well, good-​bye. I’ll drive on, as I’m a lit­tle in a hur­ry.’

‘Good-​bye,’ said John­ny. ‘I’m very glad to have had the plea­sure of meet­ing you.’ ‘He’s a good sort of fel­low af­ter all,’ he said to him­self when the gig had passed on. ‘He wouldn’t have talked in that way if he meant to hang back.’