The Last Chronicle of Barset

CHAPTER L

LA­DY LUFTON’S PROPO­SI­TION

It was now known through­out Barch­ester that a com­mis­sion was to be held by the bish­op’s or­ders, at which in­quiry would be made–that is, ec­cle­si­as­ti­cal in­quiry–as to the guilt im­put­ed to Mr Craw­ley in the mat­ter of Mr Soames’s cheque. Sundry ru­mours had gone abroad as to quar­rels which had tak­en place on the sub­ject among cer­tain cler­gy­men high in of­fice; but these were sim­ply ru­mours, and noth­ing was in truth known. There was no more dis­creet cler­gy­man in the dio­cese than Dr Tem­pest, and not a word had es­caped from him as to the stormy na­ture of that meet­ing in the bish­op’s palace, at which he had at­tend­ed with the bish­op–and at which Mrs Proudie had at­tend­ed al­so. When it is said that the fact of this com­ing com­mis­sion was known to all Barset­shire, al­lu­sion is of course made to that por­tion of the in­hab­itants of Barset­shire to which cler­ical mat­ters were dear;–and as such mat­ters were spe­cial­ly dear to the in­hab­itants of the parish of Fram­ley, the com­mis­sion was dis­cussed very ea­ger­ly in that parish, and was spe­cial­ly dis­cussed by the Dowa­ger La­dy Lufton.

And there was a dou­ble in­ter­est at­tached to the com­mis­sion in the parish of Fram­ley by the fact that Mr Ro­barts, the vicar, had been in­vit­ed by Dr Tem­pest to be one of the cler­gy­men who were to as­sist in mak­ing the in­quiry. ‘I al­so to pro­pose to ask Mr Oriel of Gre­sham­bury to join us,’ said Dr Tem­pest. ‘The bish­op wish­es to ap­point the oth­er two, and has al­ready named Mr Thum­ble and Mr Quiv­er­ful, who are both res­idents in the city. Per­haps his lord­ship may be right in think­ing it bet­ter that the mat­ter should not be left al­to­geth­er in the hands of cler­gy­men who hold liv­ings in the dio­cese. You are no doubt aware that nei­ther Mr Thum­ble nor Mr Quiv­er­ful do hold any benefice.’ Mr Ro­barts felt–as ev­ery­body else did feel who knew any­thing of the mat­ter–that Bish­op Proudie was sin­gu­lar­ly ig­no­rant of his knowl­edge of men, and that he showed his ig­no­rance on this spe­cial oc­ca­sion. ‘If he in­tend­ed to name two such men he should at any rate have named three,’ said Dr Thorne. ‘Mr Thum­ble and Mr Quiv­er­ful will sim­ply be out­vot­ed on the first day, and af­ter that will give in their ad­he­sion to the ma­jor­ity.’ ‘Mr Thum­ble in­deed!’ La­dy Lufton had said, with much scorn in her voice. To her think­ing, it was ab­surd in the high­est de­gree that such men as Dr Tem­pest and her Mr Ro­barts should be asked to meet Mr Thum­ble and Mr Quiv­er­ful on a mat­ter of ec­cle­si­as­ti­cal busi­ness. Out­vot­ed! Of course whey would be out­vot­ed. Of course they would be so paral­ysed by fear at find­ing them­selves in the pres­ence of re­al gen­tle­men, that they would hard­ly be able to vote at all. Old La­dy Lufton did not in fact ut­ter words so harsh as these; but thoughts as harsh passed through her mind. The read­er there­fore will un­der­stand that much in­ter­est was felt in the sub­ject at Fram­ley Court, where La­dy Lufton lived with her son and daugh­ter-​in-​law.

‘They tell me,’ said La­dy Lufton, ‘that both the archdea­con and Dr Tem­pest think it is right that a com­mis­sion should be held. If so, I have no doubt that it is right.’

‘Mark says that the bish­op could hard­ly do any­thing else,’ re­joined Mrs Ro­barts.

‘I dare­say not, my dear. I sup­pose the bish­op has some­body near him to tell him what he may do and what he may not do. It would be ter­ri­ble to think of, if it were not so. But yet, when I hear that he has named such men as Mr Thum­ble and Mr Quiv­er­ful, I can­not but feel that the whole dio­cese is dis­graced.’

‘Oh, La­dy Lufton, that is such a strong word,’ said Mrs Ro­barts.

‘It may be strong, but it is not the less true,’ said La­dy Lufton.

And from talk­ing on the sub­ject of the Craw­leys, La­dy Lufton soon ad­vanced, first to a de­sire for some ac­tion, and than to act­ing. ‘I think, my dear, I will go over and see Mrs Craw­ley,’ said La­dy Lufton, the el­der to La­dy Lufton the younger. La­dy Lufton the younger had noth­ing to urge against this; but she did not of­fer to ac­com­pa­ny the el­der La­dy. I at­tempt­ed to ex­plain in the ear­li­er part of this sto­ry that there still ex­ist­ed a cer­tain un­der­stand­ing be­tween Mrs Craw­ley and Lord Lufton’s wife, and that kind­ness­es had oc­ca­sion­al­ly passed from Fram­ley Court to Hog­gle­stock Par­son­age; but on this oc­ca­sion, La­dy Lufton–the Lucy Ro­barts that had once passed cer­tain days of her life with the Craw­leys at Hog­gle­stock–did not choose to ac­com­pa­ny her moth­er-​in-​law; and there­fore Mrs Ro­barts was in­vit­ed to do so. ‘I think it may com­fort her to know that she has our sym­pa­thy,’ the el­der wom­an said to the younger as they made their jour­ney to­geth­er.

When the car­riage stopped be­fore the lit­tle wick­er-​gate, from whence a path led through a ragged gar­den from the road to Mr Craw­ley’s house, La­dy Lufton hard­ly knew how to pro­ceed. The ser­vant came to the door of the car­riage, and asked for her or­ders. ‘H–m–m, ha, yes; I think I’ll send in my card;–and say that I hope Mrs Craw­ley will be able to see me. Won’t that be best; eh, Fan­ny?’ Fan­ny, oth­er­wise Mrs Ro­barts, said that she thought that would be best; and the card and mes­sage were car­ried in.

It was hap­pi­ly the case that Mr Craw­ley was not at home. Mr Craw­ley was away at Hog­gle End, read­ing to the brick­mak­ers, or turn­ing the man­gles of their wives, or teach­ing them the­ol­ogy, or pol­itics, or his­to­ry, af­ter his fash­ion. In these days he spent, per­haps, the hap­pi­est hours of his life down at Hog­gle End. I say that his ab­sence was a hap­py chance, be­cause, had he been at home, he would cer­tain­ly have said some­thing, or done some­thing, to of­fend La­dy Lufton. He would ei­ther have re­fused to see her, or when see­ing her he would have bade her hold her peace and not in­ter­fere with mat­ters which did not con­cern her, or–more prob­able still–he would have sat still and sullen, and have spo­ken not at all. But he was away and Mrs Craw­ley sent out word by the ser­vant that she would be most proud to see her la­dy­ship, if her la­dy­ship would be pleased to alight. Her la­dy­ship did alight, and walked in­to the par­son­age, fol­lowed by Mrs Ro­barts.

Grace was with her moth­er. In­deed Jane had been there al­so when the mes­sage was brought in, but she fled in­to the back re­gions, over­come by shame as to her frock. Grace, I think, would have fled too, had she not been bound in hon­our to sup­port her moth­er. La­dy Lufton, as she en­tered, was very gra­cious, strug­gling with all the pow­er of her wom­an­hood so to car­ry her­self that there should be no out­ward­ly vis­ible sign of her rank or her wealth–but not al­to­geth­er suc­ceed­ing. Mrs Ro­barts, on her first en­trance, said on­ly a word or two of greet­ing to Mrs Craw­ley, and kissed Grace, whom she had known in­ti­mate­ly in ear­ly years. ‘La­dy Lufton,’ said Mrs Craw­ley, ‘I am afraid this is a very poor place for you to come to; but you have known that of old, and there­fore I need hard­ly apol­ogise.’

‘Some­times I like poor places best,’ said La­dy Lufton. Then there was a pause, af­ter which La­dy Lufton ad­dressed her­self to Grace, seek­ing some sub­ject for im­me­di­ate con­ver­sa­tion. ‘You have been down in Alling­ton, my dear, have you not?’ Grace, in a whis­per, said that she had. ‘Stay­ing with the Dales, I be­lieve? I know the Dales well by name, and I have al­ways heard that they are charm­ing peo­ple.’

‘I like them very much,’ said Grace. And then there was an­oth­er pause.

‘I hope your hus­band is pret­ty well, Mrs Craw­ley?’ said La­dy Lufton.

‘He is pret­ty well–not quite strong. I dare­say you know, La­dy Lufton, that he has things to vex him?’ Mrs Craw­ley felt that it was the need of the mo­ment that the on­ly pos­si­ble sub­ject of con­ver­sa­tion in that house should be in­tro­duced; and there­fore she brought it in at once, not lov­ing the sub­ject, but be­ing strong­ly con­scious of the ne­ces­si­ty. La­dy Lufton meant to be good-​na­tured, and there­fore Mrs Craw­ley would do all in her pow­er to make La­dy Lufton’s mis­sion easy to her.

‘In­deed yes,’ said her la­dy­ship; ‘we do know that.’

‘We feel so much for you and Mr Craw­ley,’ said Mrs Ro­barts; ‘and are so sure that your suf­fer­ings are un­mer­it­ed.’ This was not dis­creet on the part of Mrs Ro­barts, as she was the wife of one of the cler­gy­men who had been se­lect­ed to form the com­mis­sion of in­quiry; and so La­dy Lufton told her on the way home.

‘You are very kind,’ said Mrs Craw­ley. ‘We must on­ly bear it with such for­ti­tude as God will give us. We are told that He tem­pers the wind to the shorn lamb.’

‘And so He does my dear,’ said her la­dy­ship very solemn­ly. ‘So He does. Sure­ly you have felt that it is so?’

‘I strug­gle not to com­plain,’ said Mrs Craw­ley.

‘I know that you strug­gle brave­ly. I hear of you, and I ad­mire you for it, and I love you.’ It was still the old la­dy who was speak­ing and now she had at last been roused out of her dif­fi­cul­ty as to words, and had risen from her chair, and was stand­ing be­fore Mrs Craw­ley. ‘It is be­cause you do not com­plain, be­cause you are so great and so good, be­cause your char­ac­ter is so high, and your spir­it so firm, that I could not re­sist the temp­ta­tion of com­ing to you. Mrs Craw­ley, if you will let me be your friend, I shall be proud of your friend­ship.’

‘Your la­dy­ship is too good,’ said Mrs Craw­ley.

‘Do not talk to me af­ter that fash­ion,’ said La­dy Lufton. ‘If you do I shall be dis­ap­point­ed, and feel my­self thrown back. You know what I mean.’ She paused for an an­swer; but Mrs Craw­ley had no an­swer to make. She sim­ply shook her head, not know­ing why she did so. But we may know. We can un­der­stand that she had felt that the friend­ship of­fered to her by La­dy Lufton was an im­pos­si­bil­ity. She had de­cid­ed with­in her own breast that it was so, though she did not know that she had come to such de­ci­sion. ‘I wish you to take me at my word, Mrs Craw­ley,’ con­tin­ued La­dy Lufton. ‘What can we do for you? We know that you are dis­tressed.’

‘Yes–we are dis­tressed.’

‘And we know how cru­el cir­cum­stances have been to you. Will you not for­give me for be­ing plain?’

‘I have noth­ing to for­give,’ said Mrs Craw­ley.

‘La­dy Lufton means,’ said Mrs Ro­barts, ‘that in ask­ing you to talk open­ly of your af­fairs, she wish­es you to re­mem­ber that–I think you know what I mean,’ said Mrs Ro­barts, know­ing very well her­self what she did mean, but not know­ing at all how to ex­press her­self.

‘La­dy Lufton is very kind,’ said Mrs Craw­ley, ‘and so are you, Mrs Ro­barts. I know how good you both are, and for how much it be­hoves me to be grate­ful.’ These words were very cold, and the voice in which they were spo­ken were very cold. They made La­dy Lufton feel that it was be­yond her pow­er to pro­ceed with the work of her mis­sion in its in­tend­ed spir­it. It is ev­er so much eas­ier to prof­fer kind­ness gra­cious­ly than to re­ceive it with grace. La­dy Lufton had in­tend­ed to say, ‘Let us be wom­en to­geth­er;–wom­en bound by hu­man­ity, and not sep­arat­ed by rank, and let us open our hearts freely. Let us see how we may be of com­fort to each oth­er.’ And could she have suc­ceed­ed in this, she would have spread out her lit­tle plans of suc­cour with so lov­ing a hand that she would have con­quered the wom­an be­fore her. But the suf­fer­ing spir­it can­not de­scend from its dig­ni­ty of ret­icence. It has a no­bil­ity of its own, made sa­cred by many tears, by the flow­ing of streams of blood from un­seen wounds, which can­not de­scend from its dais to re­ceive pity and kind­ness. A con­scious­ness of un­de­served woe pro­duces a grandeur of its own, with which the high-​souled suf­fer­er will not eas­ily part. Bas­kets full of eggs, pounds of eleemosy­nary but­ter, quar­ters of giv­en pork, even sec­ond-​hand cloth­ing from the wardrobe of some rich­er sis­ter–even mon­ey, un­so­phis­ti­cat­ed mon­ey, she could ac­cept. She had learned how that it was her por­tion of her al­lot­ted mis­ery to take such things–for the sake of her chil­dren and her hus­band–and to be thank­ful for them. She did take them and was thank­ful; and in the tak­ing she sub­mit­ted her­self to the rod of cru­el cir­cum­stances; but she could not even yet bring her­self to ac­cept spo­ken pity from a stranger, and to kiss the speak­er.

‘Can we not do some­thing to help you?’ said Mrs Ro­barts. She would not have spo­ken but she per­ceived that La­dy Lufton had com­plet­ed her ap­peal, and that Mrs Craw­ley did not seem pre­pared to an­swer it.

‘You have done so much to help us,’ said Mrs Craw­ley. ‘The things you have sent us have been very ser­vice­able.’

‘But we mean some­thing more than that,’ said La­dy Lufton.

‘I do not know what there is more,’ said Mrs Craw­ley. ‘A bit to eat and some­thing to wear;–that seems to be all that we have to care for now.’

‘But we were afraid that this com­ing tri­al must cause you much anx­iety.’

‘Of course it caus­es anx­iety;–but what can we do? It must be so. It can­not be put off or avoid­ed. We have made up our minds to it now, and al­most wish that it would come quick­er. If it were once over, I think that he would be bet­ter what­ev­er the re­sult might be.’

Then there was an­oth­er lull in the con­ver­sa­tion, and La­dy Lufton be­gan to be afraid that her vis­it would be a fail­ure. She thought that per­haps she might get on bet­ter if Grace were not in the room, and she turned over in her mind var­ious schemes for send­ing her away. And per­haps her task would be eas­ier if Mrs Ro­barts al­so could be ban­ished for a time. ‘Fan­ny, my dear,’ she said at last, bold­ly, ‘I know you have a lit­tle plan to ar­range with Miss Craw­ley. Per­haps you will be more like­ly to be suc­cess­ful if you can take a turn with her alone.’ There was not much sub­tle­ty in her la­dy­ship’s scheme; but it an­swered the pro­posed pur­pose, and the two el­der ladies were soon left face to face, so that La­dy Lufton had a fair pre­text for mak­ing an­oth­er at­tempt. ‘Dear Mrs Craw­ley,’ she said, ‘I do so long to say a word to you, but I fear that I may be thought to in­ter­fere.’

‘Oh, no, La­dy Lufton; I have no feel­ing of that kind.’

‘I have asked your daugh­ter and Mrs Ro­barts to go out be­cause I can speak to you more eas­ily alone. I wish I could teach you to trust me.’

‘I do trust you.’

‘As a friend, I mean;–as a re­al friend. If it should be the case, Mrs Craw­ley, that a ju­ry should give a ver­dict against your hus­band–what will you do then? Per­haps I should not sup­pose that it is pos­si­ble.’

‘Of course we know that it is pos­si­ble,’ said Mrs Craw­ley. Her voice was stern, and there was in it a tone al­most of of­fence. As she spoke she did not look at her vis­itor, but sat with her face avert­ed and her arms akim­bo on the ta­ble.

‘Yes;–it is pos­si­ble,’ said La­dy Lufton. ‘I sup­pose there is not one in the coun­ty who does not tru­ly wish it may not be so. But it is right to be pre­pared for all al­ter­na­tives. In such case have you thought what you will do?’

‘I do not know what they would do to him,’ said she.

‘I sup­pose that for some time he would be–’

‘Put in prison,’ said Mrs Craw­ley, speak­ing very quick­ly, bring­ing out the words with a sharp ea­ger­ness that was quite un­usu­al to her. ‘They will send him to gaol. Is it not so, La­dy Lufton?’

‘I sup­pose it would be so; not for long I should hope; but I pre­sume that such would be the sen­tence for some short pe­ri­od.’

‘And I might not go with him?’

‘No, that would be im­pos­si­ble.’

‘And the house, and the liv­ing; would they let him have them again when he came out?’

‘Ah; that I can­not say. That will de­pend much, prob­ably, in what these cler­gy­men will re­port. I hope he will not put him­self in op­po­si­tion to them.’

‘I do not know. I can­not say. It is prob­able that he may do so. It is not easy for a man so in­jured as he has been, and one at the same time so great in in­tel­li­gence, to sub­mit him­self gen­tly to such in­quiries. When ill is be­ing done to him­self or oth­ers he is very prone to op­pose it.’

‘But these gen­tle­men do not wish to do him ill, Mrs Craw­ley.’

‘I can­not say. I do not know. When I think of it I see that there is noth­ing but ru­in on ev­ery side. What is the use of talk­ing of it? Do not be an­gry, La­dy Lufton, if I say that it is of no use.’

‘But I de­sire to be of use–of re­al use. If it should be the case, Mrs Craw­ley, that your hus­band should be–de­tained at Barch­ester–’

‘You mean im­pris­oned, La­dy Lufton.’

‘Yes, I mean im­pris­oned. If it should be so, then do you bring your­self and your chil­dren–all of them–over to Fram­ley, and I will find a home for you while he is lost to you.’

‘Oh, La­dy Lufton, I could not do that.’

‘Yes, you can. You have not heard me yet. It would not be a com­fort to you in such a home as that to sit at ta­ble with peo­ple who are part­ly strangers to you. But there is a cot­tage near­ly ad­join­ing to the house, which you shall have all to your­self. The bailiff lived in it once, and oth­ers have lived in it who be­long to the place; but it is emp­ty now and it shall be made com­fort­able.’ The tears were now run­ning down Mrs Craw­ley’s face, so that she could not an­swer a word. ‘Of course it is my son’s prop­er­ty, and not mine, but he has com­mis­sioned me to say that it is most hearti­ly at your ser­vice. He begs that in such a case you will oc­cu­py it. And I beg the same. And your old friend Lucy has de­sired me al­so to ask you in her name.’

‘La­dy Lufton, I could not do that,’ said Mrs Craw­ley through her tears.

‘You must think bet­ter of it, my dear. I do not scru­ple to ad­vise you, be­cause I am old­er than you, and have ex­pe­ri­ence of the world.’ This, I think, tak­en in the or­di­nary sense of the words, was a boast on the part of La­dy Lufton, for which but lit­tle true pre­tence ex­ist­ed. La­dy Lufton’s ex­pe­ri­ence of the world at large was not per­haps ex­ten­sive. Nev­er­the­less she knew what one wom­en might of­fer to an­oth­er, and what one wom­an might re­ceive from an­oth­er. ‘You would be bet­ter over with me, my dear, than you could be else­where. You will not mis­un­der­stand me if I say that, un­der such cir­cum­stances, it would do your hus­band good that you and your chil­dren should be un­der our pro­tec­tion dur­ing his pe­ri­od of tem­po­rary seclu­sion. We stand well in the coun­ty. Per­haps I ought not to say so, but I do not know how oth­er­wise to ex­plain my­self; and when it is known, by the bish­op and oth­ers, that you have come to us dur­ing that sad time, it will be un­der­stood that we think well of Mr Craw­ley, in spite of any­thing a ju­ry may say of him. Do you see that, my dear? And we do think well of him. I have known of your hus­band for many years, though I have not per­son­al­ly had the plea­sure of much ac­quain­tance with him. He was over at Fram­ley once at my re­quest, and I had great oc­ca­sion to re­spect him. I do re­spect him; and I shall feel grate­ful to him if he will al­low you to put your­self and your chil­dren un­der my wing, as be­ing an old wom­an, should this mis­for­tune fall up­on him. We hope that it will not fall up­on him; but it is al­ways well to be pro­vid­ed for the worst.’

In this way La­dy Lufton at last made her speech and opened out the pro­pos­al with which she had come laden to Hog­gle­stock. While she was speak­ing Mrs Craw­ley’s shoul­der was still turned to her; but the speak­er could see that the quick tears were pour­ing them­selves down the cheeks of the wom­an whom she ad­dressed. There was a down­right hon­esty of thor­ough-​go­ing well-​wish­ing char­ity about the propo­si­tion which over­came Mrs Craw­ley al­to­geth­er. She did not feel for a mo­ment that it would be pos­si­ble for her to go to Fram­ley in such cir­cum­stances as those which had been sug­gest­ed. As she thought of it all at the present mo­ment, it seemed to her that her on­ly ap­pro­pri­ate home dur­ing the ter­ri­ble pe­ri­od which was com­ing up­on her, would be un­der the walls of the prison in which her hus­band would be in­car­cer­at­ed. But she ful­ly ap­pre­ci­at­ed the kind­ness which had sug­gest­ed a mea­sure, which, if car­ried in­to ex­ecu­tion, would make the out­side world feel that her hus­band was re­spect­ed in the coun­ty, de­spite the degra­da­tion to which he was sub­ject­ed. She felt all this, but her heart was too full to speak.

‘Say that it shall be so, my dear,’ con­tin­ued La­dy Lufton. ‘Just give me one nod of as­sent, and the cot­tage shall be ready for you should it so chance that you should re­quire it.’

But Mrs Craw­ley did not give the nod of as­sent. With her face still avert­ed, while the tears were still run­ning down her cheeks, she mut­tered but a word or two. ‘I could not do that, La­dy Lufton; I could not do that.’

‘You know at any rate what my wish­es are, and as you be­come calmer you will think of it. There is quite time enough, and I am speak­ing of an al­ter­na­tive which may nev­er hap­pen. My dear friend Mrs Ro­barts, who is now with your daugh­ter, wish­es Miss Craw­ley to go over to Fram­ley Par­son­age while this in­quiry among the cler­gy­men is go­ing on. They all say it is the most ridicu­lous thing in the world–this in­quiry. But the bish­op you know is so sil­ly! We all think that if Miss Craw­ley would go for a week or so to Fram­ley Par­son­age, that it will show how hap­py we all are to re­ceive her. It should be while Mr Ro­barts is em­ployed in his part of the work. What do you say, Mrs Craw­ley? We at Fram­ley are all clear­ly of the opin­ion that it will be best that it should be known that the peo­ple in the coun­ty up­hold your hus­band. Miss Craw­ley would be back, you know, be­fore the tri­al comes on. I hope you will let her come, Mrs Craw­ley?’

But even to this propo­si­tion Mrs Craw­ley could give no as­sent, though she ex­pressed no di­rect dis­sent. As re­gard­ed her own feel­ings, she would much pre­ferred to have been left to live through her mis­ery alone; but she could not but ap­pre­ci­ate the kind­ness which en­deav­oured to throw over and hers in their trou­ble the aegis of first-​rate coun­ty re­spectabil­ity. She was saved from the ne­ces­si­ty of giv­ing a di­rect an­swer to this sug­ges­tion by the re­turn of Mrs Ro­barts and Grace her­self. The door was opened slow­ly, and they crept in­to the room as though they were aware that their pres­ence would be hard­ly wel­comed.

‘Is the car­riage there, Fan­ny?’ said La­dy Lufton. ‘It is al­most time for us to think of re­turn­ing home.’

Mrs Ro­barts said that the car­riage was stand­ing with­in twen­ty yards of the door.

‘Then I think we will make a start,’ said La­dy Lufton. ‘Have you suc­ceed­ed in per­suad­ing Miss Craw­ley to come over to Fram­ley in April?’

Mrs Ro­barts made no an­swer to this, but looked at Grace; and Grace looked down up­on the ground.

‘I have spo­ken to Mrs Craw­ley,’ said La­dy Lufton, ‘and they will think of it.’ Then the two ladies took their leave, and walked out to their car­riage.

‘What does she say about your plan?’ Mrs Ro­barts asked.

‘She is too bro­ken-​heart­ed to say any­thing.’ La­dy Lufton an­swered. ‘Should it hap­pen that he is con­vict­ed, we must come over and take her. She will have no pow­er to re­sist us in any­thing.’