The Last Chronicle of Barset [112]
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 recollection of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as they sat together--and dullness is always more endurable than sadness. Old Mr Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross. 'Henry,' he said, 'you haven't said a word to throw to a dog.' 'I've got rather a headache this evening, sir,' said the major. The archdeacon drank two glasses 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 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. Mrs Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented upstairs, when suddenly her son entered the room. 'Mother,' he said, 'I think it better to tell you that I am going to Allington.'
'To Allington, Henry?' She knew very well who was at Allington, and what must be the business which would take him there.
'Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances which make it incumbent on me to see her without delay.'
'What circumstances, Henry?'
'As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so now. I owe it to her and to myself that she should not think I am deterred by her father's position.'
'But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by her father's position?'
'No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I am alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon her--upon her and me, too, should she ever become my wife. But it is one of those burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enough to bear.'
'Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to her. Then honour would require it of you, as well as affection. As it is, your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, for all our sakes, and especially for Edith's.'
'It will do Edith no harm; and, mother, if you alone were concerned, I think you would feel that it would not hurt you.'
'I was not thinking of myself, Henry.'
'As for my father, the very threats which he has made make me conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that he will stop my allowance.'
'But than may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You are the younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in making an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so.'
'I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him that from me,
That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollection of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as they sat together--and dullness is always more endurable than sadness. Old Mr Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross. 'Henry,' he said, 'you haven't said a word to throw to a dog.' 'I've got rather a headache this evening, sir,' said the major. The archdeacon drank two glasses 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 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. Mrs Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented upstairs, when suddenly her son entered the room. 'Mother,' he said, 'I think it better to tell you that I am going to Allington.'
'To Allington, Henry?' She knew very well who was at Allington, and what must be the business which would take him there.
'Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances which make it incumbent on me to see her without delay.'
'What circumstances, Henry?'
'As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so now. I owe it to her and to myself that she should not think I am deterred by her father's position.'
'But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by her father's position?'
'No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I am alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon her--upon her and me, too, should she ever become my wife. But it is one of those burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enough to bear.'
'Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to her. Then honour would require it of you, as well as affection. As it is, your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, for all our sakes, and especially for Edith's.'
'It will do Edith no harm; and, mother, if you alone were concerned, I think you would feel that it would not hurt you.'
'I was not thinking of myself, Henry.'
'As for my father, the very threats which he has made make me conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that he will stop my allowance.'
'But than may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You are the younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in making an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so.'
'I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him that from me,